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Chapter 8

The dawn chorus is the herald of spring. It starts with a lonely, serenading minstrel, usually a blackbird. She is clear and harmonious, as fresh and sweet as the gardens she will later raid. In the neighboring tree, her saucy fanfare dares others to match their salsa song of the canopy.

The competition rouses them from their slumber, opening their beaks to the heavens. The avian aria slowly becomes a fugue, bouncing through bough and bower. The lilting majesty of their song cascades into open spaces, through glassy windows, and onto the smiling lips of the dreamers within. Spring is here.

What are the triggers for the comforting cannon of tree music? Is the lace of morning fog slowly receding as the months roll by? Is it the gently unfurling flowers, velour soft and receptive to warmth? Is it the baked oven smell of grass as the sun purges it of water? It is this and more. It is the world moving from iron grey to fairyland–green. It is the spools of lambs' wool hanging from straggly
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