04/14/2026
You were asleep. Your yard was not.
At five this morning, before the first car started on your street, the dawn chorus was already underway. Here's a sample of what was happening within earshot of your pillow.
The first singer: a robin. He started before full light — a liquid, rising phrase repeated from the top of your tallest tree. He's been doing this since March and he won't stop until July.
By five fifteen: a cardinal. Sharp, slurred whistles — "birdy birdy birdy" or "cheer cheer cheer." He sings from the same perch every morning to defend his territory.
By five twenty: a Carolina wren. Loud, explosive "tea-kettle tea-kettle tea-kettle" from inside your hedge. Disproportionately loud for a bird that weighs about as much as two quarters.
By five thirty: the titmouse. A clear, whistled "peter peter peter" from the canopy. She's already been to the feeder twice.
Also singing: a song sparrow from the ground cover, running through his complex, buzzy song. A mourning dove cooing from the wire. A woodpecker drumming on the dead limb near the garage.
By six: a crow passed overhead, calling. A chickadee gave the "fee-bee" whistle. Somewhere in the distance, a phoebe called its own name.
🌿 What the chorus tells you:
- Each species starts at a slightly different light level — the order is consistent day after day
- More singers arriving each week as migrants settle in
- The dawn chorus is loudest in April and May — this is peak territory defense and mate attraction
- You can hear most of this from bed with a window cracked open
The concert started at five. You slept through the best set of the year. 🐦