This morning I’m watching two robins finish the nest they’ve been building this week. It’s in an elbow of grape vine, a place this couple (or another that looks just like them!) began a nest last year and then abandoned it. They are very industrious, going back and forth to a nearby bluff where they pluck moss and dry grass for the creation of this beautiful messy home. I love to hear the dawn song, a series of clear whistles, often going on for some time, and in the background there might be the long note of the varied thrush, changing pitch as the notes rise and fall. Yesterday I heard a recording of Nat King Cole singing “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” and I thought of how often our memories are framed by bird song, that we say, Oh, it must have been August because the barred owls were calling, or it was April and we heard the robins at dawn. I may be right, I may be wrong,/But I’m perfectly willing to swear/That when you turn’d and smiled at me/A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.