When the birds return

(QBĐT) - I woke up to the chirping of birds at the start of the day. Their melodious songs, echoing from the canopy of leaves outside the window, seemed to awaken not only my sleep but also a whole world of memories. I lay still, listening, my heart filled with emotion. It had been so many years since I had last enjoyed such a pure and beautiful natural melody. Had the birds returned, or was it just a dream?

I grew up in a peaceful village where birds and people lived together like friends. On thatched roofs, in the crevices of wooden posts, or in the gaps of crumbling tiles, flocks of sparrows chirped and built their nests. They were not afraid of people. Every morning, they swooped down into the yard, pecked at fallen grains, and bathed themselves in the golden dust of the morning sun. We children were fascinated by their every little gesture. The way they tilted their heads, scratched their wings, and hopped around was so innocent. The sound of birds became a familiar sound of childhood, the background music for all our games, laughter, and even midday dreams.

I remember once, when I was in second or third grade, I climbed the longan tree behind my house to look for a bird's nest. In my childish curiosity, I thought seeing bird eggs and boiling them to eat would be a miracle. But as soon as I touched the nest, the lesson from my textbook, "Don't destroy bird nests," suddenly came back to me like a gentle reminder: "A bird has a nest / Like we have a home / At night the bird sleeps / During the day the bird sings / The bird loves its nest / Like we love our home / If a bird loses its nest / The bird is sad and won't sing."

Nesting season for birds. Photo: Internet

I stood motionless on the branch, lost in thought. That small lesson, seemingly simple, resonated like a wake-up call. I withdrew my hand, climbed down, my heart pounding as if I had committed a grave mistake. From that day on, I never thought about touching a bird's nest again. It seemed I understood that even though birds are small, they have their own sacred world and deserve protection. From then on, a strange empathy for birds developed within me, an innocent yet enduring feeling that stayed with me throughout my adulthood.

Then, day by day, with the passage of time, that peace gradually disappeared. People began shooting birds with guns and setting traps. Children were taught by adults how to use slingshots and how to stalk birds. The rural markets were filled with stalls selling golden-brown roasted birds. Cramped cages held creatures with teary eyes and long, desperate necks. Their songs became intermittent and weak, like pleas that went unheard. The houses were also gradually devoid of the birds' nests.

I remember once almost getting into a fight with a man carrying an air gun into the neighborhood. He aimed straight at a nightingale chirping on a branch. I screamed and ran to shield it. He snapped, "It's just a bird!", and then a dry gunshot rang out… Frustrated and helpless, all I could do was write poetry: “The nightingale's melodious song on the branch / The blue sky releases a compassionate melody / A hundred flowers rejoice with ivory words / A dry, lead bullet / Oh, little bird, my heart aches…”

There were times I thought the sound of birds would never return. The countryside had become densely populated residential areas, the trees had been cut down. Too many people still considered birds a delicacy or something to keep as pets. The sound of birds, if it still existed, only echoed from iron cages, distorted and confined. Every time I heard it, my heart ached.

Then, a quiet but hopeful change took place. The authorities began to tighten regulations on bird conservation. "No hunting birds" signs appeared in residential areas, tourist zones, mangrove forests, along embankments, and in fields. Air guns were banned, and those who set traps were fined. The media talked more about biodiversity conservation. But perhaps the most valuable thing was the change in people's hearts. People began to see bird trapping as cruel. Children were taught to love nature, reminded that even small birds have nests, parents, and lives as precious as anyone else's.

I began to hear the birdsong again from the gardens of my small town. Warblers, bulbuls, sparrows… flocked to the treetops. Once, I saw a pair of birds building a nest in the bougainvillea trellis in front of the porch. They spent days gathering rubbish, straw, and dry leaves, tending to it like skilled craftsmen. I watched silently, not daring to approach, afraid that even a loud noise would frighten them and make them abandon their nest. Then I heard the chirping of the chicks, delicate as a thread of silk.

The return of the birds is not just a natural phenomenon. To me, it's a sign of rebirth. It's proof that when people know when to stop, when to repent and correct their ways, nature will forgive them. Though late, it's never too late.

Every time I pass by the rural market, I stop at the place where people used to sell birds for food. Occasionally, I still see roasted egrets and herons, but it seems the cages of sparrows are gone. A shop specializing in bird meat said, "Few people dare to trap birds anymore. People have learned to cherish them. We're very happy about that; if there were no one to eat them or no one to trap them, we'd just sell something else..."

I looked up at the sky. A flock of sparrows swooped down onto the recently harvested rice field, hopping among the straw. They were like vibrant brushstrokes, bringing the countryside back to life. And in that moment, I understood that we cannot live without the sound of birds. Not because the sound is beautiful, but because it is a part of life, of balance, of peace, of memory, and of belief in goodness.

The birdsong has returned. Not only in the canopy of leaves, but also in people's hearts.

Do Thanh Dong

Source: https://baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202506/khi-tieng-chim-tro-ve-2227349/