Whenever I hear an Ovenbird, which, these days, is just about on every walk through the woods, I think of a poem written by Robert Frost with the title of "A Minor Bird." I've never been sure about the reference to the minor key, since, to my ears, this pint-sized singer's "tea-cher... TEA-cher... TEA-CHER!" notes are most major.  But Frost certainly got the part about the Ovenbird's singing morning to night correct, and I guess a listener could grow weary of the ceaseless singing, as the warbler tries to lure in females and defend his territory from trespass by potential rivals. In frustration, the poet clapped his hands to drive away the bird, and then he felt sorry about that decision, concluding: "And of course there must be something wrong/In wanting to silence any song." Wrong, indeed. The Ovenbird I heard along the Benedict Benson path was a kind of beacon, and when I at last located the singer, I used all my stealth skills and the Sigma supertelephoto to capture the concert, not cause it to end. The concertmaster, for his part, made sure that I knew that he knew I was watching and listening.