Thunder, for us Alaska-born-and-bred types, is a hang-up-the-phone-run-out-the-door-whoop-and-gawk experience that happens once every couple of years. I was, fortunately, already outside, recorder in hand, when a storm cracked and rumbled and rolled overhead last week. Headphones clamped to my head, microphone held high, I was surprised to hear that the warblers and thrushes kept right on whistling and tweeting and chipping away, just as they were before the sky let loose its avalanche of sound.
Then I remembered that those tiny, feathered beings spend most of their lives in thunder-rattled regions of Texas and Tucson, Mexico and Guatemala. Business as usual for these guys. If they had grins only half as crazed as the one I was wearing, there is no way they could have kept singing.