I don’t know about you, but this time of year, with the sun getting up ever earlier, absolutely wrecks me.
My internal body clock—that smug little biological hall monitor that doesn’t actually understand clocks, schedules, or civilized behavior—had finally started behaving, after too many years of the completely deranged sleep patterns required of an eighteen-wheel driver.
I retired from that insanity, ditched the alarm clocks, and briefly imagined a peaceful existence where no shrill electronic screech dictated my mornings anymore. It took me almost a year to recover from that job. That fantasy of peace lasted right up until nature hired a replacement for that alarm clock, without any approval process I was aware of.
Now, some feathered lunatic outside my window handles the wake-up calls. Specifically, a male cardinal. A tiny red psychopath with the work ethic of a cocaine-fueled crossing guard. Let me give you a sample:Official sunrise around here hit at 5:38 this morning. Tomorrow, sunrise arrives a minute earlier, because apparently, the Earth itself enjoys trolling me. Naturally, this overachieving noise grenade — roughly the size of a cassette tape for those of us old enough to remember civilization — starts screaming at about 4:30 AM. I swear, this thing is loud enough to crack automotive glass and summon cemetery occupants from neighboring counties.
Honestly, I suspect my body clock suffers from Stockholm Syndrome at this point. I haven’t touched an alarm clock in nearly a year, entirely by choice. Retirement finally freed me from schedules, dispatchers, deadlines, and all the other joys of trucking life. Unfortunately, my old alarm clock got replaced by a red-feathered fog horn with absolutely no snooze button and the emotional restraint of a toddler with a drum set. The steady beep beep beep of a garbage truck reversing is quite peaceful by comparison.
When the bird first moved in, I thought he seemed charming. “A cardinal! How delightful! Nature! Look how vibrant his feathers are!”
Yeah. That lasted about three mornings. Well, okay, two.
I live now, near a state park, after all. I figured I’d enjoy the peaceful ambiance with the happy little woodland creatures. This place has groundhogs, raccoons, squirrels, and the occasional skunk, as well as a black bear or two, though I've not seen one of those yet. Maybe some gentle birdsong. Heck, I signed the papers on this place, listening to a robin in my front yard. My vision at the time was of a calming little soundtrack while sipping coffee on my front porch. Instead, God sent me a big block V8-powered air raid siren with feathers, thus proving he's got a sense of humor, I suppose. He’s GOT to be laughing about this.
At this point, I must admit that calling the red audio terror “rather cool” ranks among my poorer life decisions — right up there with buying a house within acoustic range of a bird that apparently believes publication deadlines, overnight writing sessions, and human sleep cycles represent propaganda that must be overcome by sheer volume that rivals Deep Purple, or The Who in concert. Given that the thing has to be all lung to generate that level of screech, it's a wonder to me that it can fly.
The sun won’t rise for another two hours? Excellent. Clearly, that means it is time to start screaming like Ilhan Omar in handcuffs. If this lunatic had opposable thumbs, he’d own a leaf blower. You know the kind: A Gas-powered backpack contraption that makes you look like you're trying to pass as a Ghostbuster. Literally, humanity’s way of declaring war on silence, neighborhood peace, and any squirrel within a three-mile radius. This cardinal has that all beat, I swear.
I say all this only half-joking, of course. But this morning, around 4:37, bleary-eyed, I did briefly consider introducing the bird to the Second Amendment in the interest of regional peace and quiet.
(Sigh.)
Anyway. I’m awake now. May as well get to work. I have a daily to crank out.
