How the Birds Know

There was an idea abroad when I was a kid to the effect that if you learned about a thing, if you "analyzed" it, we said, you would lose the pleasure of it, much the way that dissecting a frog kills it in the process. We got this mistaken idea by listening to boring teachers, so you might say we came by it honestly, but it was no less mistaken for that.

And yet—well, this morning I was up early, and heard the birds singing at 4 a.m., before I could see any light beginning to glow in the east. They're the first thing I hear in the morning, the first sign that the day is beginning. First a few, then more join in. And of course I laid there wondering how they know. I tell people I'd like to travel with a cadre of experts who would follow at a respectful distance, as if I were the president, but would step forward when summoned (I'd do it in a friendly way, that's just me) and explain things I'd like explained. I usually envision this on hikes, when I'm curious about things. At home, obviously you just google that stuff up. But I was lying there, and I decided that although I'm curious, I did not at that particular moment particularly care to know how the birds know. Leave it an unanswered question, I thought, just for now. In the light of day, I may look it up. But in the dark, it was pleasant to simply muse upon the knowings of birds and let that one thing continue as a mystery.