Who needs sleep in the springtime?
Me. I do.
The last several nights I’ve been awakened around three in the morning to incessant bird chirping. Tweeting, twittering, whistling. Loud. Unyielding.
Nature was tops in my book until some birds went and happened. A pair of them built a nest above my bedroom window, AND had the audacity to bring baby birds into the world. What’s the word for a baby bird? Birdling? Tweetle? Pretty certain it’s one of those.
So, yeah, evidently the babies wake up around middle of the night o’clock and go nuts.
I actually blame this situation on the swallows. Not the birds nesting outside my window — no. They’re not swallows. They’re something else, evil and insipid. I think swallows told them to torture me. They offered up a bribe, some kind of thing the tweety adorable birds would love. Given that they’re Colorado birds, I presume they were offered mountain bikes or craft beer. Ooh, maybe weed.
No, they wouldn’t make that much noise while high. Although, it would make the baby birds hungrier. However, I doubt the regurgitated food from mom measures up to craving-busters like cheetos and pizza.
I’ve gone too far. I know that. Maybe bird munchies are different. Who’s to say?
See, the swallows are assholes. Several years ago, they nested in our garage at our old place. We essentially had a carport attached to our building. Garages with no doors. And swallows dart quickly. They are rockets with beaks. And when they come tearing around a corner, and you happen to be standing next to the driver’s side of your orange Subaru, and your body takes the nonverbal cue from the bird and throws your face downward to miss being harpooned by a bird, thus smashing your face into the frame of your very sturdy, dependable car, leaving you with a fat lip, a headache, and a stupid story about how a bird made you do it, yes, you hold a grudge.
Maybe I did call the HOA to have the little fuckers evicted before they could construct their mud nest of doom the following year. I might have done that. Payback was necessary. There are millions of places for swallows to nest — places far, far away from my face, from my car.
It appears they were perturbed, and they hold a grudge almost as well as I do.
Well, swallows, I guess you win this round. I, however, am going to go out onto my porch every morning this week and eat eggs (the organic ones I bought at Costco) with a wicked grin on my face. Challenge accepted, demon spawn.