In the early morning just as the sky loses its blackness, a bird sings outside my window. It is a beautiful song that has many verses. Characterized by trills, slides and confusing dynamics, the singer’s throaty gusto awakens me. He seems to be ushering the day in with true gladness of heart. Not stopping for the light he goes on and on. I confess that often I doze off in mid-song, missing a portion of his glorious performance. But he doesn’t seem to mind as my presence is not essential to his desire to sing. He sings because…because why? I don’t know. Is it because of his genetics such that he just can’t help himself? Is it a stimulus-reaction so that as the darkness recedes, he finds his beak opening and the notes pouring out like Pavlov’s dog salivating when the bell sounded? Or is it love of the day, love of the chance to do all that the new day offers again that he find no better way to express? It’s difficult not to anthropomorphize.
I wish that I could express my gifts with such exuberance indifferent to audience, indifferent to all but the determination to perform the act.
For whom does the bird sing? For himself? For his mate? For other birds? For God? For me? I don’t know what passes through his little bird brain in those wee hours of the morning, but I am indeed grateful for every note as his is a song I love.