A Letter To The Birds Outside My Window

Dear Singing Birds,

I'm sure you don't realize it, but I haven't been sleeping very well lately. No matter what time I go to bed, I'm awake by 7:00 AM. I lay there in the gray light of early morning wide awake and desperately wishing to fall back asleep. I'm very tense right now; I think it's the waiting for others to decide my future bit that's getting to me. The endless waiting and the nerves and hoping every morning for an e-mail saying, "Congratulations!" that so far hasn't come from anyone.

Anyway, Birds, the point is, today I was sleeping. Sleeping soundly and happily and dreaming of driving in a car with Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush. We were all good friends and they were still in their costumes from The King's Speech and Colin Firth was stammering a bit. Then you started singing. Yes, you. And BAM, just like that your birdsong woke me up-- at 7:45 AM. I lay there, desperately wanting to be asleep. But you kept singing. Then you would stop ever so briefly and I would have hope that finally, finally it would be quiet for awhile-- then you started again. You must have been literally on a branch right outside my window you were so loud.

The thing is, Birds, in the spring, I don't mind your early morning songs. You and your chirps herald warm, sunny days, flowers growing, sundresses, walks outside, and afternoon naps. In the winter, there is no compensation for your irritating shrieks. I wake up and it's rainy and cold and raw outside, because IT'S STILL JANUARY! Migrate back south or hibernate or something! Or move to a tree a few houses down. Please, it's a very small thing to ask.

Thanks so much.

Love,
Abigail