Around midnight there’s a bird in the tree by my bedroom window that starts singing. His timing is intriguing. I thought birds went to bed with sundown and stayed quiet until sunrise. Not this one. He has a repertoire that is impressive. He must be an opera singer preparing for his role. He keeps me awake. I listen to his notes, and not one is the same as the other. He varies his tone and his melody. You’d think others were answering him, but it’s all coming from him.
Lately he’s taken the night off. I miss him.
“Thank heavens he’s stopped,” Alf said.
“Why? I quite liked him,” I said.
“You’ve always needed a lullaby,” Alf says.
“I know you can’t sleep with noise, but this is music, not noise.”
“I bury my head under the pillows,” Alf said.
“But it’s soothing. You’re missing out.”
“He sounds like a hand bell choir, wind chimes, and a tin drum all rolled into one,” Alf said.
“That isn’t noise,” I said.
“That’s because you’re tone deaf.”
Calvin says, “There needs to be a bay in there somewhere, then it would be complete.”