Nightingale at Dawn

A couple weeks ago, after a very late one-off party, I cursed the brightening sky as I smoked out the window. As a longtime owl, I have always been unnerved by the first birdsongs of morning. They are a prelude to sunrise, and thus a penalty for all-nighters: as the cool blues of morning push past eyelids, so do the early bird calls annoy the restless sleepers ears. This morning, however, I had a change of humor. I was inclined to savor rather than suffer these scales and trills. And so, dangling ash over rue Champollion, I spent some time learning to appreciate a guest who, all my life, I have found unwelcome.