At 4, some solo bird, like a pioneer woman getting up the wood stove, began a rustling, clunky chirp in a nearby tree. It was dark and she worked alone, making the noises that were necessary to the effort at hand... day approached and there was 'cooking' to do. I knew her sound but not her name. Others slept, but not for long.
Shortly before 4:40, there were about 30 seconds of small, erratic explosions as if someone had inadvertently set off a fireworks cache ... or maybe it was a gunfight to mark the denouement of a drunken night-before gone bad. Whatever it was, it was something messy and man-made.
By 5, the other birds began to stir and a very pale light touched the East.
Odd to think that when anyone wakes up, the refreshing freshness is utterly and sublimely whole ... as if the wakefulness touched some great "everywhere" and no one else could possibly wake up in this perfect way.
"No one else" ... and yet everyone the same.
What a racket the birds are making now.