This time of year I can wander my yard, equal parts naturalized woodsy, goldenrod-filled meadow, and human-cultivated garden, and hear the earth’s pulse. A Tufted Titmouse song peals over the trees, setting up territory for one more clutch. Soft coos drift between Mourning Dove mates, one on nest, the other on roof. And high pitched whistles drift among leaf rustles, feathered ventriloquists hiding their fledged selves from two and four legged threats. The robins have had another successful clutch emerge into my private preserve. One short-tailed fledgling remained composed as I gingerly captured her wait. I anticipate a week of new generation sightings.