This Blows.

In the summer months, birds gather in the dense trees outside our bedroom window. As the sun comes up, they chirp and sing as if it is their first time seeing such a glorious sight. At times their joyful noise becomes so raucous that it pesters the gentle sleepers who wish only for a couple more hours in dreamland.

As the leaves drop and the sky turns gray, they flit away—their presense forgotten, their absence unnoticed. Until, once again, the ground warms, the branches green, and the horizon glows with brilliant rays. And they re-appear, they themselves like fresh sprouts of spring.

Today, as I endeavored to rest, I thought I heard a faint warble, a slight tweeting and I wondered: can it be already?

No, in fact, it was only the high pitched whistle, the strained wheezing of my over-clogged right nostril.