The brightness of the moon and the 1,000 lightening bugs lighting up this pine tree last night like a Pink Floyd laser show woke up the chorus of Cicadas. Who woke up my 4 baby birds. Who wanted a snack. Then another nighttime story. Then they were too hot. Then a fight broke out because someone was touching someone else's wing on purpose even though an invisible line was drawn down the nest which made that space the sacred no touch zone.
The crying. The flashing lights. The all night cicada singing. Me plus four baby birds in this tiny little nest. For the first time in my life, I was jealous of the Penguin whose only job for a bit is to stand there in the chilly Arctic breeze, balancing that one baby between their legs while waiting there for their mate to bring food.
This bird stuff is for the birds. Oh wait. I'm a bird. Shit.
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