The happiest creature on the planet lives about 30 meters from where I sleep.
I know this, that this particular entity is impossibly happy, because it sings all night and day. I assume it is a young bird because age brings such cynicism. As we grow older we realize that it isn’t fruitful to sing all the damn time like we haven’t a care in the world. This bird sings all the damn time like it hasn’t a care in the world.
I have nothing against it, honestly. I’m one to celebrate happiness and sing right along when I hear it. Though not entirely immune to the bitterness of age, I’ve trained very hard to keep (or, perhaps, readopt) the carefree spirit of my youth. I applaud this frivolous fowl.
But there are times when enough seems to be enough. Last night around 1:30 in the morning I thought to myself, “isn’t that about enough, you daft duck?”
It wasn’t. It wasn’t enough for this daft duck. Now, mind you, I don’t know what species of bird it is, so when I say “fowl” or “duck” I am simply searching for synonyms for the songstress. Honestly, I don’t know if its male or female, either, but “songstress” sounded right in that sentence.
What I do know is this: this avian has a clarion wail and is happy as hell.
To put this critter’s canticle in context I would convey that it is akin to one of those car alarms that you catch occasionally. I’m talking about the one’s that change their pitch and rhythm every few seconds. They seem to last for hours as you wonder how everyone in the universe can hear this alarm but the poor unfortunate soul that controls it. It’s almost amusing at first, but then the minutes tick by and the sheer annoyance and repetition of the chorus has you seeking shells for your shotgun.
Not that you would do that. And I wouldn’t be any more inclined to shoot a happy bird in the trees than you would be to fire a round into an idle, if vexatious, auto. A fleeting thought, nothing more.
I suppose it deserves a name, this newfound friend of mine. Can you dub a bird “Vexatious”?
I’m certain it won’t be long before the natural predators of the wild and the aching joints of age disperse this baby birdie’s mirth into the natural acerbity of life. But in the meantime, I will enjoy the carefree song of my vexing companion at every hour except the 2 am one. In the mornings I will appreciate the lyrical dawn. In the afternoons I’ll be inclined to sing along. In the evenings he’ll be an amusement for Mrs C and me.
So sing away, you winged wonder.
Sing until you can no more.