the early bird that scratches the window at 4.53 in the morning, is grey. even when it is green and yellow and black in the sunlight. that is because it is too dark to see him yet.
but my morning is broken by this little entity, my sleep interrupted, my journey into unconsciousness fallen short. birds have hit my running dreams like little feathered bullets, leaving holes in the most interesting places.
and so i sit here and think of all those things. like why i like birds. or what the birds have lost in my window. or what makes drunken russians sing at five o’clock in the morning. or why the trees out there feature a horde of warblers or something like that. or how come the blackbird song in september is so similar to that in march. or of cottage cheese. and so on.
and then the crows come, and the seagulls, and there is nothing to think of anymore. except the coffee, drunken russians and the cottage cheese.
give me a horde of tiny little warblers twittering anytime. please.
