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Birds sing when they’re happy. Sometimes, however, they’re happy at 3:00 a.m. When the nights are warm and I’ve left the windows open, I often find their music a soothing lullaby. Or, a Saturday Night Live routine.Â
Early this morning, after being awakened by an avian songster, I thought I detected a reincarnated John Belushi by way of Ron Popeil, all filtered through a groggy noggin. It was an ungodly hour, but I found my stomach rumbling, and the following poem taking shape:Â
Mockingbird, I hear you tellin’
But I ain’t buyin’ what you’re sellin’
Why can’t you just let me sleep?
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I’m just glad that car alarms in my neighborhood don’t get happy at 3:00 a.m.Â
