Belatedly (by a month) I realized/remembered/speculate on a likely reason why the pre-dawn chorus (and birdsong in general) suggests such a feeling of rightness to the world.
Because we're monkeys.
To illustrate, I thought back to the few times I've seen golden and bald eagles. They're not particularly common in my various habitats, but if their colors didn't give 'em away, their size would. Massive-looking compared even to our more common hawks and vultures, the impression one made upon the local wildlife upon flying overhead was sheer, mute panic every time. Ducks and geese dive for the shore, tree bark scratches with sheltering squirrels, and all the symphonic glory of Class Aves goes silent faster than you can say intermission.
Now think of our ancestors, munching various fruit up in the forest canopy. Songbirds must've been part of our alarm system. So long as the fluffy little morons kept chittering away, busying themselves with reproductive contests instead of survival, it probably, hopefully meant no truly terrifying dangers were in range, be these fires, storms, climbing leopards or swooping raptors - and the bigger eagles may certainly carry off great apes' lesser ancestors. Unnatural silence sounds eerie for a reason. If forest birdsong is more or less a constant, a sign all is well with the world, then when it stops... panic!
Equating unexpected silence to some predatory menace hanging over us may add some perspective to my perpetual unease back when my family moved from the noisy city out to a lifeless dormitory town suburb.
Maybe batty man needs more robin?
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