We sleep with our bedroom window open at night - winter, spring, summer, fall - makes no difference - the window has to be open at least a crack.
Several months ago - I think about late April, I was awakened about 4:30 am by a a variety of birds outside my window, all singing at once.
Some would have got out of bed and shut the window - I listened for about 15 minutes, and started composing a poem about the experience. I have done this many times - started composing in the middle of a sleep - sometimes remembering nothing of my poem in the morning - other times, being able to sit down and write whatever I had written without a hitch.
In this case, when I woke up several hours later, I remembered much of what I had recited in my head, so I grabbed some paper and a pencil and jotted it down.
Two days ago I removed all the scraps of paper from my desk to give it a good dust, and when I was sorting through the scraps I came across my mid-night poem.
Yesterday I typed what I had written and then for the rest of the day mulled it over in my head. This morning I went to the library, cleaned, came home, gave Gary a hair cut, washed the kitchen floor, and mulled some more.
Then I came upstairs and finished the poem.
I usually write several poems a year - this is the first for 2016.
A Robin, Canary, Dove and a Crow,
Roused themselves just before dawn.
They shook off their sleep, stretched just a bit,
Preparing to practice, “the song”.
Although it was dark, and they were missing the Lark,
They set themselves up for the drill.
The same time each day, they met here this way,
To practice and hone their great skill.
The Dove on the wire, the Crow on the hedge,
Canary, where no one could see.
And where was the Robin, you ask with a grin?
Well there he was perched in a tree.
The Dove made the rhythm and started the pace,
Co- cooing his baritone line.
Next entered the Robin, his melody pure,
Although just a bit out of time.
The crow was un-tuned, not really that good,
But he sang with all that he had.
Contralto line, most difficult yet,
If he made it he’d be very glad.
The crystal-clear sound that lofted above,
By far, the best song of all;
The descant Canary, pitch perfect in tune,
Bellowed forth from someone so small.
I turned in my sleep, or was I awake,
Most surely I was richly blessed.
To listen to birdsong at dawn every morn,
That choir – My gosh, they’re the best!