I am not a morning person.
Yet there’s something almost tolerable about beginning the day with birdsong. It’s about 4 AM, the sky is becoming light but the sun’s not yet above the horizon, and the air—and my ears—are filled with birdsong.
And this would be truly tolerable, or even pleasurable, if the birds singing were all cardinals. Or even crows and bluejays. And it’s sweetness itself to hear a mourning dove (so, perhaps, I am a mourning person?).
Usually the first bird to squawk, that infamous early bird, is the American Robin. And my ears are in agony.
When I was young my mother would drop me off at church for my edification (though rarely sticking around herself, unless it was Christmas or Easter and the church was pretty) and I’d have to sit through the tedium of a rural Lutheran service. The pastor was rarely inspired. The congregation mumbled through everything. And the choir required no audition.
For the most part the choir was as lackluster as the rest of the congregation and you needed the book (a hymnal?) to understand the words. But there was always one person (in this case a woman) who had been told at some point in her life that she had a wonderful voice, apparently by someone tone deaf but easily impressed by volume, who would sing louder than the rest of the choir combined.
She was the robin of the service. Or the robin is the loud woman of the bird choir. In both cases, auditioning was not required.
Even if this isn’t proof of reincarnation it’s very strong evidence for parallel evolution, the same niche being filled by unrelated species.
I roll over onto my good ear and let the birdsong pass me by.
The Naked Old Man 