Most mornings I awaken to the territorial song of a whip-poor-will. Wait a minute! you might say, if you have some familiarity with this bird. The whip-poor-will rarely performs its namesake song outside the spring mating season. And hey… (you may add suspiciously) whip-poor-wills winter along the Gulf of Mexico and in Central America. They’re hundreds of miles from your frigid Minnesota home in winter! What’s the story, Petersen? The truth is, I cheat. My whip-poor-will waker-upper comes from an alarm clock.

During the spring breeding season, local wild birds often make my electronic whip-poor-will redundant. Thanks to its high latitude, Minnesota’s June sunrises take place as early as 5:30 a.m. Humans may have allied dawn and birdsong, but birds don’t seem to consider this such a firm contract. More than two-dozen songbird species nest in our neighborhood, and many appear to consider it slothful to wait until sunrise before singing. Some start as early as 4:00 a.m.

In the heart of winter I miss that avian chorus, however inconvenient its timing. Some birds remain here year-round, to be sure. Last year my son’s kindergarten class studied winter birds. Over dinner one evening,

he proudly informed me that birds only migrate if they can’t find their usual foods (such as insects). We enjoyed learning to recognize some of the species that frequent our yard in winter: black-capped chickadee, bluejay, American goldfinch, dark-eyed junco, American crow, Northern cardinal, white-breasted nuthatch, and several woodpecker species make up a partial list. (This year we have even been seeing American robins, historically the indicator of returning spring.) Each morning, as I watch the sunrise from the kitchen, I notice the smaller birds flitting to our feeders and heated birdbath from hidden perches among the trees and shrubs. In the depths of winter their business is conducted in almost unnatural silence. Later in the morning, if the day is warm enough, the birds’ voices begin to reach me through the windows of my office—impatient squawks of bluejays; burbling chatter from chickadees; stern-sounding ticks made by foraging juncos. The sound comes in waves throughout the day as winter flocks of each species move through their territories in search of food. As evening falls I resign myself to another long stretch of silence, and I look forward to the cheery, tri-toned wake-up call of my whip-poor-will alarm.

This morning, through the cottony strands of sleep still tying my mind to the dreamscape, I realized that something was different with my “alarm.”  I woke to a sound far more resonant and insistent. A sidelong glance at the clock—6:10 a.m.—told me that this sound had not come from my alarm, which was not due to go off for another fifteen minutes. The sound came again. Who-ha-hoo-o-o! And within a few heartbeats, the great-horned owl’s sonorous call was repeated. I smiled and pulled the blankets closer around me as I listened to the long concert.

Great-horned owls are the first of our winter-resident birds to nest, and hooting becomes most intense just before the female lays eggs. Devoted mates, the owls form pair-bonds that endure for years. Rather than migrating, the pair establishes and maintains a permanent territory. (Localized winter food shortages may break this pattern, prompting temporary southerly movements, or irruptions, toward better food sources.) Territorial boundaries are reaffirmed each autumn—just in case any young upstarts have showed up in search of a home. The big birds become unusually visible at this time, often perching on exposed branches or hunting in the afternoon. Great-horned owls also become more vocal in autumn. One of my most vivid memories from my son’s infancy is of sitting in his room during feedings in the middle of the night. As we rocked together in the chair by the window, the sleepy silence was often broken by the calls of a great-horned owl. Before putting the baby back in his crib I frequently stood at the window, swaying gently as I searched for the owl’s dark silhouette. The bird’s preferred hooting spot was the highest bare branch in the neighbor’s yard, from which his voice carried far across the trees and lake. Though years have passed, the sound of owl-song still evokes those nights with my newborn son.

It’s hard to say exactly where the owls’ nest is located. Great-horned owls don’t construct nests as some raptors do, but take over the nests previously occupied by crows, other raptors, or even squirrels. These might be stick nests, somewhat exposed in a winter-bare deciduous tree, or hollows in an aged tree. Around our property are many choices. I’ll be keeping a close eye on several old maple and oak trees at the bottom of the meadow. Each autumn we’ve seen great-horned owls perched on their branches or on the ground nearby. And one morning this past January, after a storm, my son and I were thrilled to notice a large set of wingprints in the meadow’s fresh snow—evidence of the bird’s attempt to capture prey on the ground.

Whatever the location of the nest, several tiny owlets will hatch in mid-March. By early May, as frogs begin to call along the lakeshore and the trees in our orchard reach full bloom, the fledgling owls will be ready to fly beside their parents and begin their education in the ways of the owl.

If the female has already begun to lay her eggs, this morning’s round of owl-song may be the only concert we get. But soon enough the mornings will ring with the din of eager songbirds. For now, my whip-poor-will alarm provides sufficient daily affirmation of one of the first realizations I made when becoming a naturalist: Listen for birdsong every day, just because you can.