Peter and I sleep with the window open and the fan on these summer nights. I love the fan, and so sleep closest to the window. Peter tolerates it. Typical routine is that he turns on the fan a bit before bedtime to clear and cool the air – we sleep – then I wake up first, around 5am, and turn the fan off, so we – especially Peter – can hear the birds’ morning salutations.
One morning, as I sat, and Peter stayed laid down in bed, listening to the lilting, melodious aviaric symphony, our euphoric state was disrupted with “BA-BAAAAWK! B-BAWK, BA-BAAAAAWK!” – our neighbors’ chickens.
I could relate. They were trying so hard – so hard to match the lilting refrains of their more delicate peers. Though try as they may – it was a lost cause. And they did try – over and over. We both couldn’t help but chuckle.
And one of the particularly determined, adamant chickens – perhaps out of heightened frustration with its ill-advised endeavor – took it up a notch. It launched into a phrase of the highest, most warbling chicken chortling I’d ever heard.
I could relate – when at a distinct disadvantage, throw all caution to the wind and astound with your overwhelming audacity.