The Carefree Chorus of the Night Bird

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 or beneficial in any way to sing all the damn time like we don’t have a care in the world. This bird sings all the damn time like it doesn’t have 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 cynicism of age, I’ve trained very hard to keep (or, perhaps, re-adopt) the carefree spirit of 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 “shouldn’t that about wrap it up, you daffy 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 this songstress. Honestly, I don’t know if its male or female, either, but “songstress” sounded good in that sentence.

What I do know is this: this avian has a clarion wail and it is happy as hell.

To put this critter’s canticle into perspective I would say that it is akin to one of those automobile alarms you hear in the distance from time to time. 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 the alarm but the poor unfortunate with the pocket clicker that controls it. It’s almost amusing at first. 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 it. 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 name 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 bitterness of life. For now 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 will be inclined to sing along. Come evening, an amusement for the wife and I.

There are worse sounds in this world.

So sing away, you winged diva. Sing while you’re still young enough and brave enough not to care. Sing through the day and sing through the night. A bird can only live once. Live bold.

Author: Tom Being Tom

Tom Being Tom is one man’s worldview, plastered on the digital world stage for all to see. He drank and knew things long before Tyrion ever did.

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