Dawn, Dozing, and the Sparrow Symphony

I don't have many friends here who truly share my interests.  Well, unless you count the birds in my yard, but they’re mostly just in it for the food.

Every winter morning for these ten years, I perform my sacred duty as the benevolent provider of stale birdseed.  Before dawn, while normal people are still enjoying their warm beds, I shuffle outside in my slippers and place my cockatiels’ leftover food under the pine tree.  The wild birds have a hard time finding food in the cold, and since I can’t knit tiny sparrow-sized sweaters, this is the least I can do.

Then, I go back to bed, attempting to reclaim my lost sleep.  Most of the time, I just drift in and out of consciousness, like a half-awake monk meditating on the meaning of life (or just debating whether to get up and make tea).  But within 30 minutes, the sparrow choir begins their breakfast concert.  I imagine about 20 of them gather, though I’m not peeking through the curtains to count—some mysteries are better left unsolved.

Somehow, this moment, lying in bed, listening to the sparrows chatter excitedly over yesterday’s leftovers, is when I feel the most at peace.