Let me tell you about early winter mornings. They are slow to appear, and carry with them the haze of gray conductive to consumption of chicken noodle soup, and coffee, and maybe a pomegranate. They start with blackness, out of which comes a "Chip". And again. "Chip". Rhythmical, concise, very business-like.
Hello, Mr. Cardinal. Nice to hear you for a hundredth morning in a row.
"Chip."
The bird is visiting the feeder underneath the bedroom window, and announcing its presence to the world in this manner. There is more than one, of course- three males and four females by the latest count; some of the females might be first-year males without proper plumage.
Encouraged by the "chip"s, muddy sunlight creeps into the room, peers between the Passion-fruit's leaves and skirts around the ailing lemon tree. It passes through the leggy jasmine, undeterred. The alarm clock begins to bleat.
"Chip," Comments the bird outside.
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