This one goes out to all of you early birds and all of you bird watchers. You'll enjoy this.
Out of the windows and into the labyrinthine backyard with a yawn and a pair of huge black binoculars. The cold plastic fits awkwardly against the contour of my eye socket. The crisp mocha aroma of coffee grinds being washed with piping hot water into a mug filters through the hallways and slithers up my nose. The inside of the house is filled with the silent noises of the early morning. The melodic buzz of the refrigerator, the phantom creaks of the ceiling, shifting of air as I move from window to window. I look out. The creeping spectrum of dawn slowly stretches and bathes the sky with hues of pastel blues, turquoise, faded pinks. I can hear the commotion in the trees. Like a playground full of alien babies, the thousands of birds are singing, squeaking and fluttering about on every branch, furiously pecking at the tiny peach grains in the feeder. Looking at one another for the briefest of moments. I hold my breath and steady my hand, trying to focus on a blue jay. Opening the window, I can taste the grass bejeweled in beads of dew, the adolescent flowers blooming and bursting with color and pollen, firewood. The wobbling doppler of car engines as they whir by.