Chickadee

Good morning, good morning, good morning.

You guessed it, I’m at the Mill again. And I have decided that after the birth of one’s children and your wedding day, the next-greatest day of your life has to be the day you eat a Conroy’s glazed donut that is still warm from the fryer.

It’s rather unfortunate that I come to the Mill and sit picturesquely by the window and snarf this donut with reckless abandon. It would probably make a very nice picture if it weren’t for all the pieces of glaze stuck to my face. I’m not even taking dainty bites. This is serious business.

This morning I woke up to my favorite birds singing outside of my window. My apartment complex is bird heaven. You’ve heard this bird call, it’s just two notes. Two notes repeated over and over, sometimes answered by another bird. A quick wikipedia search just now taught me that this bird is the black-capped chickadee. Congratulations on becoming my new favorite bird, sir.

This chickadee call reminds me of summer. From the time I was little and riding my bike up and down the sidewalk, to the numerous years of tromping around at camp, this birdsong has been the soundtrack to some of the happiest times in my life. Like Pavlov’s dog, I’ve been classically conditioned to enjoy life whenever I hear that distinctive song.

And now I must go, for I feel that part of this beautiful morning must involve reading from Psalms.

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