I’m in the living room when I hear it: chirp! I look around, trying to place where the noise is coming from. It is squeaky and high-pitched and apparently originating from the smoke detector. I climb up on a dining room chair to get closer to the offending sound. Nothing.
I pause to listen again. There it is: chirp! I’ve just finished making cookies, perhaps I left the timer on by mistake? This fancy digital timer (purchased at the high-end kitchen store) is actually composed of three separate timers, so it takes me a minute to click on each one individually to see if any of them are responsible for the chirp.
Maybe I am hearing things? Maybe there is no chirping?
Chirp, chirp! There it is again. Now I am beyond frustrated. Is it the washing machine? Is it my cell phone? Camera? Computer? TV? What is making that incessant chirping sound?
In an act of utter desperation and futility, I turn to Short and ask, “Do you hear that chirping?”
He nods, his face solemn. “Of course I hear it, Mommy,” he confirms.
“Do you know what it is, Short? Do you know what is making the noise then?” I ask, trying to pry the secret information from him.
He points to the open kitchen window. Sitting on the ledge is a small—
“Bird, Mommy. It’s a bird.”
Of course. His little birdy beak opens and closes and chirpy bird music comes out. It’s Spring.
(“Music, Ostensibly Verse”)