Dear Birds,

I understand that singing up the sun is in your job description. I appreciate that you are eager to greet the new day. I get it–the early bird gets the worm.  However, it is 4:04 a.m.  The sun will not come up for FOUR MORE HOURS. You won’t find a worm right now unless you’ve got some high-powered night-vision goggles. Why aren’t you sleeping??

Honestly, I don’t usually mind your cheeps and twitters as you gather in the old walnut tree outside my window.  After all, I can rarely hear your joyful chatter over the whirring fan on the dresser until I’m fully awake and concentrating on the world beyond the blankets.

But one of you is pushing your luck.  That loud squeal you just made sounded alarmingly like the front door opening.  My head knows that this is virtually impossible, given the English predilection for doors with no outside handles, but my adrenalin-fueled imagination is in high gear.  So now you’ve forced me to make a heart-pounding tour of the ground floor, armed with my baseball bat, knowing full well the creaking floorboards at the top of the stairs will undermine any attempt I make to sneak up on an intruder.

As I suspected, the front door is closed firmly, and there are no uninvited guests skulking about. The baseball bat has been stashed, I’m back under the covers, and the deafening roar of my racing heart is gradually being replaced by your cheerful songs. Just this once, I’d gladly give up my remaining two hours and twenty-six, oops, twenty minutes of sleep if your premature serenade could hasten some sunlight to banish these last stubborn traces of fear and paranoia. But tomorrow, I expect the courtesy of being able to sleep straight through till the digital demon on the nightstand declares it is morning.

Sincerely,

The groggy, jumpy lady in #13