SNIPED! REVERIES FROM AN AURAL EXPLORER. By Leath Tonino
It’s an uptwirling whistle. No, it’s a fluting double helix. Sorry, try again. According to one naturalist, it’s a “whoop, whoop, whoop” reminiscent of Curly’s famous riff in the Three Stooges. Or is it a low pulsing, a fluttering buzz, a “bewildering, wavering sound that drifts from everywhere and yet nowhere”? Technically, it’s winnowing, a term that designates both the Wilson’s snipe’s flight display (high circles, shallow dives, so damn sexy to a prospective mate, so damn intimidating to a territorial intruder) and the sonic something produced by that behavior. Hmm, but that doesn’t convey the power, the wonder. Some say “ghostly, a haunting hu-hu-hu.” I say there’s nothing remotely spooky going on here; in fact, rarely am I as calmly, quietly, gladly at home as when I’ve tuned myself to the snipe. Let’s rewind and describe the experience of this spring serenade. Third week of April, 6:30 p.m. I ditch my bike by
the Gronk, wander the willows, plop down beside Peanut Lake, crack a beer, take a pull, and for once in my blathering life shut up and actually listen. Canada geese honk and splash. Red-winged blackbirds sing their classic conk-la-ree. Boreal chorus frogs chorus (run your finger against the teeth of a plastic comb to simulate). Mr. and Mrs. Mallard get into their usual nasal dispute. Maybe, for a split second, I discern a passing beaver’s silky wake. Spacing out. Outer space, inner space, inner... Boomshakalaka! Winnowing! Vladimir Nabokov, who was a serious lepidopterist on top of being a genius author, instructs us vertebrates to “worship the spine and its tingle.” For a moment, my spine feels like it’s a mile long and blazing hot. The Wilson’s snipe (Gallinago delicata, roughly “henlike dainty”) is a short-winged, thin-legged, lance-billed sandpiper that winters from the southern United States 107
