Dickcissel : The Missing Song

This is a Dickcissel. Last summer I could hardly count them all. They’re small but perch up high and have a loud, eponymous song. It’s impossible to overlook them. After experiencing them every day, they become part of the fabric of my morning walk. In a sense, much of last summer was defined by their song and beauty. After many weeks, I reached the point that I wouldn’t necessarily gawk at them, like some other birds. But simultaneously I came to rely on them, to depend on their daily contribution to the overall tableau. This little bird and his song mattered to me. This summer I’ve not seen one.

Two years ago I was in Kosice, Slovakia. I was surprised when I checked into the hotel that it had formerly been the home of a prominent Jewish artist. He and his family were exterminated during the Holocaust, and I’m gratified to say that the current hotel includes a fittingly respectful tribute to the man and his talent. I was bitterly frustrated and aching and infuriated walking through this ghost town. The sense of Missing is utterly palpable. Lives have become reduced to plaques. Family heirlooms have become artifacts. I read recently that prior to the war, Slovakia was home to 100,000 Jews. 3,000 remain.

I don’t know why the Dickcissels are gone. Maybe the insects they eat died off during our freak snowstorm. Maybe more widespread climate or environmental changes have changed the park’s suitability. As I say, I don’t know why. And maybe no one knows why. But I do know they’re gone. And I miss them. And it feels strange. And wrong. And somehow ill-fitting to walk through the park expecting their prominence, and they’re not there. I can hardly fathom what it must have been like to walk through Europe in 1945 or 1946 with millions of people simply gone. It’s just a Dickcissel; but I miss it….