There is a bird who lives in the tree outside my bedroom window. He (I'm assuming he because he has the poor taste to be so god-damned happy in the mornings) sings in his happy-chirpy voice at first light.
I've started noticing that he's also happy-chirpy in the evenings. I assumed, not being wild about birds and therefore not knowing anything about birds that don't live in cages, that after the sun was up he would go on about his day. Fly out into the world and conduct his little birdy business and return after sunset for sleeping-time.
No. That's not what happens. He sings in the afternoons too. And well into the evenings. I think this bird is mocking me. He's mocking my headache and my usual surly grumpiness in the mornings and my stress and my frustration.
I don't know why one little birdy can be so completely happy. Is it the way he's made? Perhaps his happiness stems from his existence. Maybe he is happy simply because he is alive and has a voice. Do birds have earthly pleasures? Do they experience confusion and love and torment and sexual desire?
Perhaps being a bird would be better, but I rather like my silly, twisted confusion about life. I just really wish this little guy would go sing outside another girl's window once in a while.