Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

Each morning, before coffee, before email, before the day begins its noisy clamor—I open our bedroom window.

It’s a small act, really. A simple habit. But to me, it feels sacred. I slide up the pane and just… listen. The cool air carries in the songs of the birds—trills, whistles, chirps like little bells. Sometimes a solo; often a choir. It is the sound of the world waking up. And in that moment, I wake up too.

There’s a kind of stillness in birdsong—not silence, but a full, breathing quiet. A joy that isn’t loud, but expansive. It reminds me that even before the to-do lists and the headlines, the earth is already singing. And we’re invited to listen.

That window ritual didn’t start out as something meaningful. It just became meaningful—over time, over mornings. Much like my fascination with birds.

It truly took root years ago, when I served in the Peace Corps in El Salvador. I was helping to plan El Salvador’s first national park, which is now Parque Nacional de Cerro Verde and the hummingbirds were everywhere – flashes of emerald and ruby darting between flowers.

I couldn’t stop watching them. I’d sit for hours, notebook in hand, sketching their shapes, jotting notes. Eventually, that notebook became a small book—a field guide and story collection about hummingbirds that I wrote for the Department of Natural Resources and which I used to give talks on hummingbirds to schools and environmental groups.

Did you know a hummingbird’s heart beats over 1,200 times per minute? Imagine the energy it takes just to be a hummingbird—hovering midair, wings blurring faster than the eye can follow, traveling great distances to find food. They’re little miracles of motion.

But they’re not alone in their wonder.

Take the Arctic Tern. This slender seabird migrates from the Arctic to the Antarctic and back again each year—nearly 44,000 miles. That’s like flying around the entire planet… twice.

Or consider parrots, especially the African Grey, which can mimic human speech with eerie precision. Some researchers believe they not only repeat but understand. They can name colors, count, even show signs of empathy.

And then there’s the extravagant courtship dances of the birds-of-paradise in New Guinea—feathers fanned like crowns, strange staccato steps, elaborate displays. If you’ve never seen one, promise me you’ll look them up later. They’re like living performance art.

And perhaps most beautifully, birds can see more colors than we do. They perceive ultraviolet light—hidden hues in petals, feathers, and skies. What looks plain to us may blaze with color to a bird. It makes you wonder: how much beauty are we missing?

Birds, to me are teachers. They show us resilience—think of the tiny chickadee surviving harsh winters on seeds and song. They model grace—in flight, in movement, even in stillness. And above all, they invite attentiveness. You can’t rush a birdsong. You have to pause… be present… and listen.

So much of life urges us to move fast, to chase, to scroll past. But birds? Birds remind us to slow down. To notice. To wonder.

And maybe, if we’re lucky, they remind us that we, too, are part of the song.