Wake up my sleepy mouth-breather, it’s 4:01 a.m. and I feel chatty! I might be small but I’m a warm-blooded lunatic and I’m right outside your bedroom window.
I love each new day, what it might bring, the possibilities, the joy of the unknown. One thing is certain, though, and that’s the yelling I will do out of my beak hole in the stillness of dawn, every single day. Did you think I might take time off here and there? Wrong. What kind of bird would I be if I let a morning pass without using the voice God gave me? That’s called apathy, my friend, and I’m not about to relax quietly as the world goes on sleeping. You might want to rest for seven to eight hours a night but not me, no ma’am, the worms are wiggling and I’m alive with ballistic energy.
A-meep-peep, freak! It’s hunting time, and I’m a hungry chickadee. I’m going to warble the hell out of this yard. Did you know sound travels twenty times faster at dawn? That means it’s going to pass right through your skull into the meat.
You probably hope you can fall back to sleep in a few minutes, but I assure you, you cannot. I’m about to turn it up. I’ve got some buddies out here to rip off a cacophony, and we don’t take harmonization lightly. We live by the song, die by the song. The only thing you’ll be singing is a lamentation, you sleepy twerp.
My, my, I can tell you’re irritated when I tilt my neck around sideways and look at you through my dark, wet eye. You’re clearly stressed out by this gorgeous melody I wrote myself. Ha! Okay, listen, I have a heart too. It beats just like yours for two to five years. I’m sorry if I’ve come off a little strong this and every other morning. Would you like me to keep it down? I can do that, until 4:45 a.m. It’s the best I can offer, and you should learn when to take a deal.
I see you’re closing the window, hmm? Gonna get pretty stuffy in there. When you’re tossing and turning in your hot coffin bed, think of me out here, perched in the fresh air, chest out, throat open like a cannon. I’ve got some females to call and they like an extensive repertoire, so buckle in, you skin-lipped nerd, and leave the singing to me.
That flashy tin foil you hung from the fence? Doesn’t bother me one bit. You know what interferes with my singing? Nothing. The plastic owl that looks pretty real? Won’t catch me cowering from it. No, ma’am, this chorus will continue and your tickets are free. Your trees are too good—and I mean too good—to leave. This foliage is what we birds call a lavish canopy, and I will wrap my wire feet around your boughs. It’s our world and you’re just a tall, multi-limbed visitor.
Whoa whoa! Did you see—did that owl’s head just move? No, right? Hahaha, that was crazy. Did it—is that thing breathing? Look at its chest, no, no, no, I’m bugging out, LOL! How silly is that? Almost had me. Listen, wingless, I’ve got some business a few houses over that has nothing to do with this owl nonsense. It’s bird stuff; you wouldn’t understand. When I finish up that really important stuff over there, get ready to wake up, 4 a.m, and we’ll dance.