The Golden Chorus

To a field of juneberry and hawthorn bushes, between a dense forest and the beaches of the great water humans call Superior, the goldfinches return. They fly in groups, settling on the scrub bushes, taking in the home they’ve missed while wintering in warmer climes.

As each flock trickles in, they join a rising chorus, one great song only paused for sunset. Let’s listen:

Home home home!

Home to love, to cool and safety

Home to seeds so tough yet tasty

Home to song as day begins

Home to nests and warmth therein

Each arriving group brings their own melody, and the rhythm of the song dances as the chorus grows. And the subject of the song changes over time, sometimes to haughtier themes:

Mock the hunters with our color

Mock eavesdroppers with our song

Mock those birds with feathers duller

Sing with voices clear and strong

Among the last arriving is an older bird name Flaxfrea. This was her tenth return trip to the land between the forest and the water. Goldfinches rarely have cause to count that as high as ten, but Flaxfrea knew this was an inauspicious number. She knew few of her kind made the trip so many times, to the warm water of the south as days grew short, then to the cool water of the north as days grew long.

And on that long trip, surrounded by younger birds who grew evermore excited as they chatted and sang about future nests, future lovers, future eggs, future children, Flaxfrea couldn’t help but miss a familiar feeling deep within her heart. Flaxfrea knew the emotion the others described, remembered each time she’d made the trip bearing similar dreams, but this time she couldn’t summon that ardor no matter how much she listened to younger birds talk of love and family.

She also didn’t recognize the calls of her previous lovers in the chorus. Perhaps they’d found other communities around the great superior water. Or perhaps they hadn’t made the long, exhausting trek this time. Flaxfrea made a deal with herself to not pursue a lover this season, she didn’t have the drive or the energy for it. Let younger birds have the spotlight.

She picked out a hawthorn bush closer to the forest, smaller and further from the nexus of song. She would sit and listen and remember. Then she’d watch as the other birds paired off. She could revel in their youth, their happiness. And she’d watch for predators while the others were engaged. Perhaps she’d make a small nest of her own, for nostalgia or comfort’s sake, but for now, she was content to listen and watch. And with the field well-populated, the guys took the lead in advertising themselves in verse:

The brightest gold you can peruse

The fastest wings to fetch you sticks

The greatest lover you could choose

The finest nest, made fast and thick

It’s me you want! It’s me! It’s me!

But in the midst of this team refrain, individuals would sneak in their own personal brags, sometimes interrupting each other and finishing each other’s rhymes:

Choose me for my brilliant plume

No choose me, the greatest groom

I faced down a cat with sharpest claws

My golden plumage knows no flaws

I’ll fetch seeds, day or night

I’d gift our children my great height

None have licked me in a fight

I stayed with my last love through three years

My simple mind knows no fears

Flaxfrea let these boasts and promises wash over her, and she felt a small shadow of the pleasure she remembered from when she was young. Of course, she could now recognize the swagger for what it was. She’d had eight different lovers over the years, and there was little correlation between the cleverest braggarts and the lowliest rhyme-sculptors in terms of their care or capability. Or even in how healthy or lively the chicks they raised together were.

But what surprised her most was how similar the brags were to each other. In youth, they’d seemed like such variety, a cornucopia of choice for dames like her. Now she realized they all promised the same things, bright plumage and vital children, just in slightly different ways.

Except for that last rhyming couplet, from the bird who advertised his loyalty and “simple mind.” His voice had been different too, a croaking sort of call like a frog. Her reverie broke when the ladies began their chorus in response:

Unleash your awesome, brilliant yellow

Release your power, handsome fellow

Show your gleaming aural pride

Make us ladies wish we’d died

Hope for reflections in our own

Binds of love and children sown

It felt strange to Flaxfrea now, that the girls didn’t advertise themselves but for their availability. They didn’t boast or make promises as the men did, like existing was all it took. It was true they didn’t have the brilliant yellow plumage of their male counterparts, but they brought as much, probably more, to the coupling.

If she had it to do over again, Flaxfrea would brag and promise just like the guys. She’d claim to craft the largest eggs with the thickest shells within her. That she had the best eye for nest construction, that she’d make the boys never yearn for a better lover or mother for their chicks. She’d claim she once scared off a wolverine by flapping her wings so wide she looked like a golden hawk.

For the next several days she thought about this a lot, between cracking open seeds, and spying the forest for predators. And she did make a small nest for herself, a little more snug than she normally might, and more convex to better fit her frame than the eggs it would never house.

Flaxfrea only joined the chorus once during the whole mating season, late in the day one evening when the song turned to memories, she added a single rhyming couplet:

This may be my final year

I won’t sing much, but love to hear

Over the days, Flaxfrea listened as the song dwindled as the other birds paired off. Couples sang less and worked more, preparing homes for eggs, calling out only occasionally in joyful exclamation.

The few birds still seeking a lover, however, grew evermore insistent, though there was little risk of missing out on a mate entirely. Sometimes the math didn’t quite work out, leaving a bird or two without someone to spend the summer with.

And among the final songs was that croaky chirp she’d picked out earlier:

Adored my lovers, old and young

Always faithful, sometimes wrong

Many stories to be sung

Voice is going, heart still strong

               As she fell asleep that night, Flaxfrea briefly considered what she’d do if this croaky crooner was the last voice. Would she invite him over? Would she break the deal she’d made with herself not to take a lover this season?

               These turned out to be pertinent questions, because the next morning when she opened her eyes, a finch with a strange dark pattern on his wings sat nearby, staring at her.

               “You!” He said. “You’re awake.” His voice was unmistakably the croaking call she’d recognized from before.

               “Yes,” she said.

               “I… I would like to mate with you.” And this might seem quite brazen, but for a goldfinch, this level of forwardness is expected, and in fact Flaxfrea found this bird’s pause comforting.

               “What is your name?”

               “Warbly.”

               “I am Flaxfrea. I heard your song. It was different.”

               “Did I hear yours?”

               “I only sang once.”

               “You’re the bird that sang so sadly. About listening.”

               “Yes.”

               “I had hoped you were.”

               “Oh?”

               “I had sought you out, but you stopped singing. I intentionally didn’t pursue other mates.”

               Flaxfrea paused to examine this suitor seriously. He was average size, with small black streaks on his wings. His gold feathers shown bright with the start of summer, but clearly more dull than most males. He was likely older, perhaps seven or eight years, younger than her but still in the fall of life. He held her gaze intently, questioningly.

               In any other year, Flaxfrea would have already said yes.

               “I do not seek a lover this year.”

               “Why?”

               “I am old.”

               “No.”

               “I wish to live out my life peacefully. I may not even fly south when the weather turns.”

               “We could fly together.”

               “I may not create many strong eggs inside me, if any at all.”

               “So it would be.”

               “I am tempted.”

               “Let us fly together around the field, and see what your heart says then.”

               So they did. They flew above the great forest and landed on the highest treetop. They wove little dancing dives around each other. They flew across the great water until they could barely see the shore and turned back. And Flaxfrea felt like she was in her first summer. And the promise she made to herself slid away in the wind.

***

               Flaxfrea would only lay two eggs that season, and only one hatched despite diligent work from both parents. They named their daughter Decinae, and doted on her as much as two birds ever could, perhaps too much, as she refused to stray as far as other young finches as the weather started to turn cold.

               “We’ll stay together for the migration, right?” Decinae asked one windy fall day when the community was abuzz with talk of when to leave and which southern landmark to head for.

               “Of course,” Warbly replied without hesitation.

               Flaxfrea sighed as she watched her lover and daughter chat about the lands to the south. Soon enough they’d make that long, exhausting trip together. Maybe her old wings would give out on the way, and she’d drift down to her final resting spot. Or maybe she’d make the trip and get to summer once more time by the warm water the humans call Mexico. Either way, she was ready.