Heaven must surely be filled to the brim with birdsong. I don’t know their names, these tiny warblers who cheerfully celebrate even the smallest improvement in winter weather — except for the obvious cardinals and mockingbirds. In northern Arizona, a singing bird was a rarity. The meadowlarks in the spring, with their clear, pure, three-note song, are the ones I remember. Singing out from high perches, the always sounded romantically lonely to me. But here, birdsong heralds the opening of day as surely as the light from the sun, so long as icy rain is not actively drenching the choir! Such joy.