Ear for the Sea-Surge

February 22, 2012

“[Water] is the fundamental of the original soundscape and the sound which above all others gives us the most delight in its myriad transformations.” — R. Murray Schafer

Basil Bunting reads a bit of Ezra Pound’s Canto II.

Listening Map-Crossing A Bridge

Justin Recktenwald

A Soundwalk

February 22, 2012

A Soundwalk

Maria Napolitano

Lake Beebe Soundwalk

February 22, 2012

Beebe Soundwalk

Tyran Grillo

Kazoo Choirs

February 19, 2012

Wedge-tailed Shearwaters: birds that sound like kazoos.


February 16, 2012

After our slow walk in class last week, I decided to pay more attention to footsteps I hear when I can’t see the person. During our discussion after the slow walk, I mentioned how it made me feel paranoid because it sounded like the footsteps were coming toward me. Many late nights I walk home from the library alone. Every so often I’ll see someone on my street that late walking home too. Usually I’m listening to my music but the other night I decided to listen to the sounds surrounding me on my journey. I noticed that whenever I heard footsteps, I instantly felt a surge of fear because it sounded like they were coming right toward me. I whipped my head around and as soon as I located the origin of the steps, the sound became a lot less menacing. I also noticed that as soon as I could see the person, the sound seemed a lot further away. This made me think about the correlation between sight and hearing. It reminded me of how when people become blind (or are born blind) one or more of their senses become heightened, for example hearing. Many sight-challenged people have exceptional hearing. Does the same concept apply to a lesser degree when we hear something but the origin is not in our eyesight? What is it that makes sound seem augmented when we cannot see what is making it?

Scarlet Fever

February 16, 2012

During a teaching stint in the United States, Czech composer Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904) took a vacation in Spillville, Iowa in the summer of 1893. There he wrote his String Quartet No. 12, op. 96 in F major, what was to become known as the “American” quartet. Not only has the quartet become one of the most celebrated in the chamber music repertoire, but it also contains one of the more well-known soundings of an animal in classical music history. During his sojourn, or so the story goes, Dvořák became all too familiar with the insistent song of the scarlet tanager, a sound that apparently annoyed him so much that he couldn’t help but set it to notation:

That the song ended up in the third movement of the quartet in question is testament to its motivic potency, and perhaps betrays a mind that wanted to be rid of it. Whatever the motivation, those unmistakable strains from the first violin provide what are for me some of the most arresting moments in the piece.

The following is a clip of the tanager in song. The melody that so struck Dvořák can be heard at the 13 second mark:

The violin incarnation can be heard here, at the 47 second mark:

Clearly the song differs from the version in human performance. This makes me wonder: Is this how Dvořák heard it, or was he simply trying to approximate it as best he could? However we try to mimic a bird’s speech, it will always be subpar to the real thing. Some composers have, of course, accomplished similar feats with human speech (Steve Reich’s Different Trains being a quintessential example), and yet in the case of birdsong we are unsure of the meaning behind that which we are sampling. The more I listen to Dvořák, I tend to think that I understand less of the bird and more of the composer, his music, and the musicians playing it. The song has become just another pretty melody, and there it remains, locked on the page until it is unleashed through the art of interpretation. -Tyran

Physiology of the Blessed

February 9, 2012

Agamben’s notion of the paradiscal body and in what form will humans be resurrected in is fascinating. He brings up the Edenic body, “the archetype of uncorrupted human nature,” and how the physiological makeup of the “blessed” could take on this pre-Fall form. He goes on to talk about how once resurrected, human life will have no need for bodily functions because the primary perfection of nature does not exist in the resurrection. Furthermore, animal life will not be allowed into Paradise because they are not blessed.

However, I was not sure as to what the argument was behind the animal life forms inability to be “blessed.” Do we not share those principal functions of nutrition and generation with the animals? Do not they too “eat, drink, sleep, and beget”?

The most intriguing quote that stuck out to me in chapter 6 was “If animal life and human life could be superimposed perfectly, then neither man nor animal — and, perhaps, not even  the divine — would any longer be thinkable.” In my own realm of the imagination, it’s difficult to perceive how man and animal could be superimposed. I feel as though within the human eye, it’s almost impossible to reach so far as to imagine a point where man, animal, and even divine become unthinkable.

Agamben addresses the relation between man and animal from a vantage point I had not completely considered previously. He draws on a passage from Thomas that says, “Yet they (men) needed them (animals) in order to draw from their nature an experimental knowledge.” Man was given the authority to bestow a name upon these animals despite the Biblical fact that animals were created first. The line separating the two seems to be created by man but as Agamben writes, “when the difference vanishes…something appears for which we seem to lack even a name.” Is he foreshadowing his previous statement that if animal and man become superimposed, they both will become unthinkable? Is this inevitable? And what exactly is the experimental knowledge that man draws from animal? Does animal not receive some sort of experimental knowledge from man?


February 9, 2012

I find early mornings to be the easiest time for me to attempt to answer the “Listening Questions” from Deep Listening because there is usually little to no distractions in my apartment, and there is relatively little noise in my head at this time (no side thoughts or daydreaming quite yet).  I was picking and choosing some of the different questions to answer this morning when I saw the question: “what are you listening to right now?”  And until that moment, I really hadn’t been focused on anything.  But then I started to listen for sound in my apartment, but there was nothing out of the usual.  So, I ventured outside and saw an interesting situation develop.  There was a crow perched on top of a carcass of a squirrel.  The crow was moving its head in a skeptical, jerking motion (probably trying to figure out why I was starring at it) and then it would drop it’s head and peck at the flesh of the carcass.  A few weeks ago, I probably would not have paid attention to the sounds that the beak upon flesh produced.  However, since I have been doing these listening exercises, it’s like a whole new world of sound has opened up to me.  What I found to be interesting about the crow eating the squirrel was that there were so many unique sounds:

  • There was a stretching, rubbery sound that the flesh made when the crow pulled upon it.
  • There was a dull, snapping sound when the crow cut a piece off
  • And then there was an interesting juicy, smacking sound that flesh made when moved around in the beak

I hope that this sound experience that I shared was not too gory or grotesque.  But, I found the sounds just very haunting and unique  It was the first time that I ever paid attention to the way a crow eats (or any animal for that matter).  The sounds were truly unforgettable and interesting.  Afterwords I found myself listening to the way I eat and being very critical.  This posed an unanswerable question: “does the crow criticize his own eating noises?”

Painting pushed back another 10,000 years–Homo Neanderthalensis drew seals.

Drumming and Crunching

February 8, 2012

Two listening experiences last Thursday. Upon exiting my apartment, I am greeted by three percussionists in two trees in the backyard, a hairy, a downy, and a pileated woodpecker. Three different time signatures, one session . . .

Later that morning, as I am sitting in Gimme Coffee reading Agamben, a sound behind me makes me involuntarily turn my neck. I stop short of being obvious, so I don’t get a look at what it is. A crunching sound that affects me like a finger on the wrong part of the brain. Some sounds don’t give a physical so much as a mental sensation, an unpleasant pressure whose parameters seem deeply psychological. I finally figure out that the guy behind me is chewing his ice. The funny thing is that if he’d been sitting opposite, I probably wouldn’t have minded. (And I surely have inflicted my own ice chewing on other strangers.) But in that location, coming from where I can’t see it, the sound is almost unbearable.

On my morning walk to school, the sounds are blending. I first notice the persistent peter-peter-peter of a bird, growing louder. This intermingles with the distant creaking of construction equipment, the delicate crunch of my footsteps on salt laid for a snow that never comes. I spot the bird in question: a tufted titmouse.

The bird also spots me and flies away. As I open myself to the sounds of the other birds, they prove to have been enveloping me all along. It is as if the attention to one is the key to unlocking the others. The swish of a winter coat of someone walking past me. A disjunction between what I see and what I hear, for most of what I hear I cannot see. The hammering of workers inside the apartment complex going up nearby, the caressing whoosh of cars along the nearing road. Footsteps as more students converge on this well-trodden path. Intimations of life and conversation. A voice over a PA system.

As I approach campus proper, the sounds become more industrial: metal on metal, rubber on asphalt, clap on building. I am struck by the lack of speech. I hear more the cars navigating through intersections. Nearly everyone I see says nothing. It is the beginning of the school day, and I wonder if people’s enthusiasm has yet to be sparked by the day’s learning or social interactions. I watch their comportment instead: the way they (and I) slump their heads forward to compensate for the weight of their backpacks. But then there are conversations, yet they are too distant to hear. I see instead the reactions of the bodies involved. Everyone’s energy speaks in a different way, from leisurely and uncaring to rushed and utterly invested in vanquishing missed opportunities.

A fundamental aspect of silence: not an absence of sound but the inability to hear what is seen. And as I enter the building that is my destination, I feel the quietude, for it is indeed something to be heard. -Tyran

The ultimate wood listening station. At the “Kraftarena.” (Thanks to mIEKAL aND.)

The Song of a Tree

February 3, 2012

After our discussion about whale songs and how they can and have been interpreted, and our references to the many sounds trees can emit, I thought I’d share this piece of music.  It is essentially the sound produced by a tree’s rings when they are played like a record; the rings have been digitally converted to piano music to produce this song.  We touched on how whale song has been depicted as both soothing and lamenting, depending on the time period, political motivations, and opinions of the listeners.  We as human listeners seem to superimpose our prejudices and perspectives over the whale songs as we interpret them: but how do we make sense of a tree’s song, produced over so many more years, and so much more contaminated by the processes used to convert it to sound from physical growth? The production of song by whales, familiar and intelligent beings, is not all too strange, but can a plant compose as well? Is this music vainly reading meaning out of nothing, or is it a valid attempt to listen to and connect with a formerly inaccessible voice of nature?

Seeing with sound

February 2, 2012

Today, I was asked to introduce a film screening at Cornell Cinema of Wong Kar-wai’s 1994 classic Chungking Express, which begins a five-film series featuring the music of Michael Galasso, one of my favorite film composers. I have been intimately acquainted with Galasso’s music since I first heard his album Scenes. Released on ECM in 1983, the album evokes its title with uncomplicated attention. As both a film and theatre composer (Galasso worked extensively with Robert Wilson), his work has always been intimately connected to the body and its relationship to other bodies in nature and artifice alike. Being so scenically inclined, his music opened me to the possibilities of images as sonic worlds in and of themselves, and taught me that cinema is not only an art form to be seen with the eyes, but also with the ears. -Tyran

Sparking and Booming

February 2, 2012

“The chewink sang before night, and this, as I have before observed, is a very common bird on mountain-tops. It seems to love a cool atmosphere, and sometimes lingers quite late with us. And the wood thrush, indefinitely far or near, a little more distant and unseen, as great poets are. Early in the evening the nighthawks were heard to spark and boom over these bare gray rocks, and such was our serenade at first as we lay on our spruce bed. We were left alone with the nighthawks. These withdrawn bare rocks must be a very suitable place for them to lay their eggs, and their dry and unmusical, yet supramundane and spirit-like, voices and sounds gave fit expression to this rocky mountain solitude. It struck the very key-note of the stern, gray, barren solitude. It was a thrumming of the mountain’s rocky chords; strains from the music of Chaos, such as were heard when the earth was rent and these rocks heaved up. Thus they went sparking and booming, while we were courting the first access of sleep, and I could imagine their dainty limping flight, circling over the kindred rock, with a spot of white quartz in their wings. No sound could be more in harmony with that scenery. Though common below, it seemed peculiarly proper here. But ere long the nighthawks were stilled, and we heard only the sound of our companion’s breathing or of a bug in our spruce roof. I thought I heard once faintly the barking of a dog far down under the mountain, and my companion thought he heard a bullfrog.

A little after 1 A. M., I woke and found that the moon had risen, and heard some little bird near by sing a short strain of welcome to it, somewhat song-sparrow-like. But every sound is a little strange there, as if you were in Labrador. Before dawn the nighthawks commenced their sounds again, and these sounds were as good as a clock to us, telling how the night got on.”

— H.D. Thoreau, Journal entry for June 2, 1858

“There is a sweet wild world which lies along the strain of the wood thrush — the rich intervales which border the stream of its song — more thoroughly genial to my nature than any other.”

— H.D. Thoreau, Journal entry for May 31st, 1850

“These songs are listenings, as poems must listen and sing simultaneously. They are a progression of hearings of Mahler’s ‘Song of the Earth’ on records, in concert, and in my head. In the intervals of the wood thrush singing, and the silence after.”

— Ronald Johnson, on his book, Songs of the Earth (1970)

Of “Interval,” Webster’s 5th meaning (1844 Ed., see link above) is “A tract of low or plain ground between hills, or along the banks of rivers, usually alluvial land enriched by the overflowings of rivers, or by fertilizing deposits of earth from the adjacent hills. Hutchinson. [Dr. Belknap writes this intervale; I think improperly.]”

“Silence is of various depth and fertility, like soil.”

— H.D. Thoreau, Journal entry for January 21st, 1853

“Now I began to hear owls, screech (?) owls, at a distance up-stream; but we hardly got nearer to them, as if they retreated before us. At length, when off Wheeler’s grape and cranberry meadow, we heard one near at hand. The rhythm of it was pe-pe-ou ; this once or twice repeated, but more of a squeal and somewhat human. Or do not all strange sounds thrill us as human, till we have learned to refer them to their proper source? They appeared to answer one another half a mile apart; could be heard from far woods a mile off.

The wind has risen and the echo is poor; it does not reverberate up and down the river. No sound of a bullfrog, but steadily the cricket-like Rana palustris alongshore.

Rowse heard a whip-poor-will at Sleepy Hollow tonight. No scent of muskrats.”

–Henry David Thoreau, Journal entry for September 4th, 1854

Which of these owls do you think Thoreau heard?

Short-eared owl
Northern Saw-whet owl
Eastern Screech-Owl

1 [Changed in pencil, evidently at a later date, to “mole cricket.”]

A World Beneath the Ice

January 31, 2012

Put your ear to the ice and listen to the sounds of the Weddell seals

“In the deep hollow this side of Britton’s Camp, I heard a singular buzzing sound from the ground, exactly like that of a large fly or bee in a spider’s web. I kneeled down, and with pains traced it to a small bare spot as big as my hand, amid the snow, and searched there amid the grass stubble for several minutes, putting the grass aside with my fingers, till, when I got nearest to the spot, not knowing but I might be stung, I used a stick. The sound was incessant, like that of a large fly in agony, but though it made my ears ache, and I had my stick directly on the spot, I could find neither prey nor oppressor. At length I found that I interrupted or changed the tone with my stick, and so traced it to a few spires of dead grass occupying about a quarter of an inch in diameter and standing in the melted snow water. When I bent these one side it produced a duller and baser tone. It was a sound issuing from the earth, and as I stooped over it, the thought came over me that it might be the first puling infantine cry of an earthquake, which would ere long ingulf me. There was no bubble in the water. Perhaps it was air confined under the frozen ground, now expanded by the thaw, and escaping upward through the water by a hollow grass stem. I left it after ten minutes, buzzing as loudly as at first. Could hear it more than a rod.”

–Henry David Thoreau, Journal entry for January 13, 1854 JS

Animals are Deep Listeners

January 31, 2012

“When you enter an environment where there are birds, insects or animals, they are listening to you completely. You are received. Your presence may be the difference between life and death for the creatures of the environment. Listening is survival!” –Pauline Oliveiros (Deep Listening: A Composer’s Sound Practice)

A lullaby or a lament?

January 31, 2012

Listening again to Roger Payne’s Songs of the Humpback Whale, I wonder what I am hearing. Aside from the kneejerk critique of such natural music as new age dross (especially when accompanied by synthesizers), I find few negative reactions toward the whales. Their songs are immediately soothing, majestic, perhaps otherworldly, and seem to tap into a romantic yearning for planes of time and space that are beyond our grasp in the workaday world. These songs have become a haven for us. Yet part of me cannot help but wonder: what if the whales are speaking of something horrible? What if they are crying? What if they are complaining about the ships polluting their waters with debris and extraneous noise? Science has, of course, made informed guesses regarding the linguistic functions of these songs, yet how can we know that we’re not blasting private traumas of these misunderstood beings across airwaves for our own “relaxation”? I have in mind an analogue. Hungarian composer István Márta has written a piece entitled Doom. A Sigh, which was lovingly recorded by the Kronos Quartet. Against strings and electronics, we are confronted with a field recording of two Romanian women whose keening voices mourn for lost loved ones. And yet we can throw it on a Nonesuch record and call it art, treating it as a moving musical experience that somehow captures the essence of hardship (the two women in question, I’ve read, were appalled when they learned what Márta did with their private expressions of grief). We might do better to let these sounds speak to us, rather than trying to speak for them. -Tyran

Who is listening to us?

January 30, 2012

I sit. I listen. I try to open my ears to sounds I ignore or can hardly hear for the countless others vying for attention, and I realize that hearing is essentially beyond physical. My entire body is of course an ear, an echo chamber that captures and produces sound. Yet without the mind to perceive that sound, to translate its communicative possibilities into a form that is linguistic and portable, it is music without an amplifier. Another realization: we spend so much time thinking and writing about what the world sounds like to us, but how often do we think about how we might sound to the world? For is it not true that a great portion of the animal sounds we hear on a daily basis are due to our presence being perceived as a threat? Whether it’s the squirrel running away from us through a patch of leaves, the deer bounding through branches with an eye turned back on us for safety, the wing-flutter of the bird whose feeding we’ve interrupted, the timid cat who slinks almost silently away—these are the sonic signatures of protection and escape to which we are a hindering punctuation. -Tyran


January 30, 2012

Two listening experiences over the past three days got me thinking about ambience. First, night before last, the Sigur Rós concert film, Inni (at the Cornell Cinema, Willard Straight Hall). Minor keys, minimalist, cyclical, melancholic, slowed way down but always going somewhere, intensely focused. There is something lush about the Sigur Rós atmospherics that I find addictive. We might call them utterly devoid of content, self-serious to a pompous degree, silly in their absorption and relentless prettiness, yet still acknowledge their exquisite beauty. Colossally kitsch, yet sublime, pursuing that fine line to anthemic heights. The chords build without breaking until they transform into something else and you forget you were in a progression, waiting for resolution. In one of the interviews edited in between songs, one of the musicians claims, only half jokingly, that they are a “heavy metal” band. A “wall of sound” drenches musicians and audience one minute, the next has disappeared like a cloudburst, into simple piano keys. After the film I did a bit of Googling and learned that lead singer Jónsi Birgisson sings in Vonlenska, or Hopelandic: a “non-literal language, without fixed syntax.” Vonlenska “consists of emotive non-lexical vocables and phonemes” and “uses the melodic and rhythmic elements of singing without the conceptual content of language . . . a form of gibberish vocals that fits to the music.” I remember noting, during the film, how the music consistently made me think of landscape, horizons, skies filled with light, etc. What appeals to me in ambient music is precisely this freedom from narrative, content, linearity (critics might also dub it a freedom from concept). Without content of its own, ambience can fill, or tinge, any space. It thus takes on the echoes and reverberations, the architecture or geology, of various, particular spaces and times. (In the electroacoustic concert situation, and especially the cinematic experience, this effect is of course simulated.) But the echoes and reverberations do not have to be literal: when you are driving and listening to such music, the ambience binds your mood to the landscape you are passing through. (Nor does the music have to be deliberately ambient: when we listen to vocal music without paying attention to the words, our listening is ambient.) I do not know if this is an ideal form, or a dystopian perversion, of the “songline” — the oral version of a map that guides nomads through their ancestral landscapes. The tendency toward what R. Murray Schafer called “audioanalgesia” troubles me, but I do like the partial nature of ambient music: the extent to which it depends on things outside the music to make its “meanings.” I suspect this incompleteness, rather than aesthetic autonomy of the modernist Western work of art, is the cultural norm, for art-making around the world. In this case, the ethics of the practice are not inherent in the aesthetics, but in how we choose to complete the music, what use we make of it.

This afternoon, I attended a concert by CAGE (Cornell Avant Garde Ensemble), featuring two singers, Peni Candra Rini (from Indonesia) and Jessika Kenney, making their sounds throughout the lower spaces of the museum, in response to the exhibition Lines of Control. The music involved improvised percussion on a great variety of instruments (traditional drum kits but also Indonesian gamelan, wooden blocks, bowed instruments and miked laptop synthesizers). A unifying feature was the slow, cyclical drone of Annie Lewandowski’s accordion. The two singers explored a great range of vocalizations (singing, but also talking, roaring, grunting, crying out) together in exquisite echo or synchrony and sometimes separately. At one point the concert moved downstairs and the singers began to wander around the galleries, to sing and sometimes talk to the art works, while musicians took up stations along the central corridor. The audience followed along, filtering in from various directions. The concert ended in the atrium below the north entrance, with a more traditional gamelan setup (though the music was not compositionally “gamelan”). The most moving part of the concert was when the two singers approached one another slowly from either end of the corridor, singing quietly to one another–Peni Candra Rini in a haunting, traditional Indonesian vocalization–until they met in the middle and then advanced together toward the atrium.

In this second experience the ambience was directed — in a decentralized, improvisatory way — toward exploration of the acoustic properties of the spaces. The audience moved casually amidst and around the musicians, following them when they changed spaces, sometimes looking at the art (the sound of the video installations had been turned down, though not off), and the whole thing had an immersive feel. I was torn between wanting to move around the different spaces of the galleries to see how the sound changed and wanting to stay still to help the sounds concentrate; for it truly felt like a group effort, on the part of the audience as well as the musicians. At one point, I followed one of the singers into an adjoining space and began making a few dispersed popping and clicking noises myself, manifesting my impulse to participate vocally. What struck me in this performance, which certainly had its hauntingly sublime and “exotic” moments, was how ordinary it made the music feel. It felt like this was the sort of thing that should be happening in the museum all of the time, that this was how “concerts” should always be–beyond the structural opposition of stage and seating, the absorptive spectacle, almost beyond a distinction between audience and performers. One had a feeling that here was the nature of sounding, listening, hearing revealing itself in all its mundane locality. That one could fall asleep, wake up, and not “miss” a thing, picking up right where one had left off. (My own experience of the concert, I might add, cannot be separated from the somewhat groggy head of someone who had been dancing the Saturday night away just a few hours before.) In addition to the spatial effects of ambience, then, that I noted with Sigur Rós, there is a temporal “ongoingness” to ambient music. This might seem like an obvious point (it’s well-known that ambient music just “goes on forever,” in a looping drone) but where ambient compositions like those of Brian Eno can foreground a “haunting” sense of the uncanny, here I felt focused on the canny, knowing, plainly familiar nature of sound. This might seem true, perhaps, to the ensemble’s acronymic namesake, John Cage. Yet here the individuality of the musicians was not being systematically erased; rather, released from the need to offer “spectacle,” each musician seemed free to apply the ambient sounds of his or her instrumentation to the “Lines of Control” that are the spatial properties of the Johnson Museum, as well as to the content of its exhibits, and in response to as well as away from the improvisations of his or her fellow musicians. And the audience members presumably experienced a similar, pleasing autonomy.

In short, perhaps ambient music decreases the autonomy of the composition in order to increase the autonomy of its listeners. That we may better “apply” our hearing and listening. And ambient sounds find their completion in another time, outside of the music, as well as in another space, beyond that of the composition itself.


Six Mile Gorge

January 28, 2012

A walk on the loop trail, from the Recreational Way, down to the reservoir and back. Wind blowing in the treetops. Creaking of pines. Snap of branches: tree on tree or deer on tree? Squelch of shoes in mud and wet leaves. Distant barks. Beyond the reservoir, gunshots or hammer blows. The wind builds as I approach the dam, until I realize I’m not hearing wind, but water rushing over the concrete sluice. I turn toward the reservoir: one rock plops into the thinned ice near shore. The other rock lands, with a rattle, on thicker ice at the end of my toss. Back on the Recreational Way, the kind voices of some strangers asking me about the trail. Calmer here. A titmouse, making two notes, tamely, on a branch almost right above my head. Peep calls of other birds softly, invisibly threading the leaves all around. Chickadees or cardinals? De dee dee dee dee, laughing of chickadees. Wind or deer brushes the stubble grass of a clearing beyond the berm. JS

February Thaw

January 28, 2012

A blog for listening notes associated with the seminar, Sounding the Animal, at Cornell Society for Humanities, Winter-Spring 2012.

Friday, 27 January, 2012

With the thaw on, today was a good listening day. Tufted titmouse singing on a wire, soon as I left the house: “tear tear tear.” At Sapsucker Woods: chirpety finches (bursting in a cloud of wings), woodpecker’s cry, kingfisher, ducks’ descending “wanh wanh wanh” in the pond. You’d almost think it were spring, but for the absence of blackbird trills. A kind of drippy lushness to the soundscape.

I looked up this poem by (19th century British poet) John Clare, on the February thaw, and noticed how much attention he gives to sound:

‎”The snow has left the cottage top;
The thatch-moss grows in brighter green;
And eaves in quick succession drop,
Where grinning icicles have been;
Pit-patting with a pleasant noise . . .
. . .
Ploughmen go whistling to their toils,
And yoke again the rested plough;
And, mingling o’er the mellow soils,
Boys shout, and whips are noising now.
. . .
The mavis thrush with wild delight,
Upon the orchard’s dripping tree,
Mutters, to see the day so bright . . .
And oft Dame stops her buzzing wheel
To hear the robin’s note once more,
Who tootles while he pecks his meal
From sweet-briar hips beside the door.
. . .
Thus Nature of the Spring will dream
While south winds thaw; but soon again
Frost breathes upon the stiff’ning stream,
And numbs it into ice: the plain
Soon wears its mourning garb of white;
And icicles, that fret at noon,
Will eke their icy tails at night
Beneath the chilly stars and moon.”

–John Clare, “February” (a few weeks early in 2012)