Carried by Song

I heard a subtle sound of spring off in the distance—a robin singing—but I couldn’t find the bird. I returned to observing a robin eating crab apples off the ground. He flew up to a branch in the top of the crab apple tree in our garden and sat there. In late winter, this tree is the epicenter of bird life in my yard, and in a way, the epicenter of my life. Between the sapsuckers and the mixed flocks that visit this tree, I find myself wondering: how much more do I need than the experience this tree provides? Is this enough? Do I need to make the most of it, or is simply being with it the goal?

I have gotten to know this robin over the past two weeks. He has claimed this crab apple tree as his prize possession, chasing off all the other robins that come near. I get a little closer to him every day. Each encounter is a little more intimate, a little more revealing. At six feet, I can watch him blink. His eye becomes a tractor beam, drawing me in until I am flowing into that dark iris. Suddenly, I’m floating on a calm wilderness lake; tiny tannic ripples massage my body. Tension is losing its grip. I am letting go.

I notice his tail pumping, and then the rhythm of his tail and the rhythm of the faint song merge. His entire body vibrates. He is whispering himself into spring. Tiny waves of song emanate from his body, accompanied by a barely audible rendition of a robin song. I can only detect the notes when focused entirely on him. If my attention wanders, the song is lost. But as my attention settles, the voice grows. It becomes all-encompassing, wrapping around me, enveloping me in the subtle sound of spring.

Watching him vibrate, something shifted in me and I thought: Sing it, brother. I could feel spring in his song. I was standing a little taller. A smile came unbidden. My neighbors were walking by on the sidewalk and I wanted to shout to them that spring was coming. The February lift was picking me up. The invisible was made visible this morning. Sunlight, warmth, apples, sugar, and song were flowing through the tree, the bird, and me. One continuous flow of energy, one gift making the rounds.

The gift’s passage through the robin is remarkable. Unlike us, he doesn’t produce sound in his throat. Deep in his chest, where the windpipe forks into the lungs, sits a uniquely avian organ called the syrinx.

Thin membranes vibrate as air passes over them, controlled by some of the fastest muscles in the vertebrate world. He can control each side independently, producing rich, layered phrases—a literal internal harmony. Because the syrinx sits so deep, when he sings with his bill closed, the sound radiates through the chest wall.

Thank you, Mr. Robin. I love you.

Increasing day length stimulates photoreceptors in his brain—photons penetrate the thin avian skull and trigger the hypothalamus. The signal cascades: the testes begin to enlarge, going from the size of a millet seed to the size of a kidney bean. It is the ultimate biological “growth mindset”—a 300-fold increase in mass. I cannot believe I am standing in my yard thinking about a robin’s testes. This is what February does to a nature writer.

This rising testosterone causes new neurons to grow in the song centers of the brain. The bird is literally rebuilding the neural architecture he needs for full song. The whisper song is practice—motor pathways being re-established, the instrument being tuned. We, too, get the chance to relearn how to be human every spring. The same light is changing us. As days lengthen, we produce less melatonin and more serotonin. The reaching for distraction that characterizes deep winter begins to ease. We become more fluid, more open to connection.

The robin is opening to song, and I am opening too. A lifetime of tension locked in fascia is releasing, creating openings. My voice is becoming more resonant. My nervous system is downregulating. A sense of calm I have never known is seeping through the openings. I am scared by it. I don’t know what to do with it, so I try to befriend the fear. I try to be with this feeling the same way I try to be with the birds.

All autumn, those crab apples hung on the tree loaded with tannins and acids — the tree protecting its fruit, waiting for the right moment. Over winter, freeze-thaw cycling did the slow work of transformation. Each time the temperature dropped and rose, ice crystals ruptured cell walls, released bound sugars, and broke down the bitterness. The fruit dehydrated, concentrating what remained. Yeasts colonized the softening flesh. A wild fermentation released goodness. By February, what started as something astringent and inedible had become something nourishing.

I made my way around the tree, filling a bag. The fruit was wrinkled, mottled, spongy, firm, and dark orange inside. I started making applesauce. The kitchen filled with a deep, perfumed apple aroma as the fruit released its essence. After thirty minutes of simmering, the apples had given up their gift. I ran the fruit through a food mill and watched as the bowl filled with a dark brown sauce.

I grabbed a spoon and had my first taste. The sauce made my tongue tingle with an electric pulse, followed by a cascade of apple flavor that smoothed out and finished with a dry tannic grip. The flavor lingered on my palate and I noticed a light sweetness underneath. This was a powerful sauce. I ate another spoonful — wild and compelling, but also a bit too much.

I got out some applesauce made from our Liberty apples and blended a small amount of the crabapple sauce into it. The smooth sweetness of the Liberty carried the tart, tannic flavor with perfect balance. The wildness of the crab apple grips your palate and takes you places domestic apples do not go.

I want to carry this wildness with me. I want this emanation to be my way of being: steadfast, resolute, and deep. I returned to the tree as the sun set to pick another round of apples. They are mostly gone now, they have taken flight and are now heralding spring. Whispered songs are spreading the love far and wide. Love returns to us in new forms. The apple becomes the bird; the bird becomes the song; the song becomes your smile.

There is no arriving. Only the next whisper.