The birds must be crazy

J0239597 Edgar Allan Poe’s raven rapping at his chamber door seemed like a literary device to me, nothing more.

Until this spring. Because both my teen son and I are being tortured by birds. Not the same birds, oh no, we each have our own feathered nemesis.

I’ve never actually seen mine. I just hear it. Most mornings, just before 5 a.m. It’s got a short, high pitched, and steady chirp, kind of like a smoke alarm with a dying battery, but more constant. It is impossible for me to sleep through, and, even more frustrating, my husband doesn’t hear it, at all; I’m thinking it’s out of his frequency range. It goes on for about an hour, or long enough so it’s not worth attempting to go back to sleep when it’s over. I’ve been staggering around for days as sleep deprivation accumulates.

Meanwhile, around the side of the house, a male robin has decided that he wants to build a nest inside my son’s room. He, too, is an early riser. He carefully gathers strands of grasses and tiny sticks, and, beak full of them, flies into my son’s screen and beats his wings against it. This is not a case of a bird slamming into a window by accident; he knows the window is there, he just wants it open. He, too, carries on for an hour or more most mornings, hanging on to those sticks, flying to a nearby tree branch to rest and then attacking the window once more. His mate sits on the ground, watching him. The sidewalk below is turning white from his droppings. And my son isn’t getting much sleep either.

Ahh, spring…

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