bringing to bear

The last thing you want to hear after a night turned darkened day is the sound of birds. They come even before the sun stirs above the horizon. They sense the birth of morning better than any farmer could hope to. But this sense lays flat on the humming tones of your own rhythmic breath, as you slip slowly into the sleep you've stifled for upwards of 20 hours. Chirps packaged as insult, because you know they do this by choice. Instinct is still choice. We stunt instinct when we don't hump strangers. The birds have not cared to learn this yet. But I will teach them, by showing how peaceful i can be in spite of them and their incessant chatter. I've broken the code, too. They are laughing. That explains the shrill banshee decibels. They mock the nights brevity and how it lost at hiding all the worldly unknowables. And primarily, they direct me to the impending day. I suppose that if the days were good, their laughter would be good. But do customer service reps ever smile back? And when you sing to them, don't they consider you pest? if it was good, you'd be good for good. After a night of drinking, you can count on the birds driving stakes into today's coffin.