Screeches

The silent stillness breaks somewhere within the dark hours.

Far away at first, a chirp in rhythmic pattern.

A tune faithful enough to set a clock to.Still in the distance, another bird chimes in unisonSoftly poking at sleeping earsWhere groggy brains realize morning is soon.But just like a snooze on an alarm,Sleep wraps me up in her loving arms to ignore the feathery disruptors.

But their call is too wild as it rolls closer like a wave,

What was once two birds are now seven or eight,Until too many voices exclaim in too shrill of tunes,“It’s almost morning, wake the fuck up and revel in all its glory!”

Hundreds of chirps, screeches, screams, and cawsCome at me like dirt devils slinging rocks at my throat.No rhyme or reason,Just the need to stretch vocal chords even further,Or perhaps they love the song of their own voice.

No prejudice to count as crows mix with finches and robins with tits,All until I’m drowning in a whirlwind of sound.A closed window cannot shut out the rage and bliss that are the birds’ rampage.A hurricane of chaos that sucks me up to spit me out,Scrape my skin and pull my hair,Till suddenly the wave rumbles along elsewhere leaving me in its wake,Disheveled and wondering what the fuck was that?

A collective daily calling,A morning ritual difficult to forget.I wish I had that much passion to connect with my fellow humanUpon the common ground that we have another day, another morning.

Instead I shut the window, turn down the blinds,Return to my dark corner of spring mattresses and cotton comforters.Maybe another time I’ll join the others on anEastward facing mountain sideTo welcome the sun on another rotation around our dizzy heads,But I just can’t find that gratitude at four in the morning.