He is always first. When the end of night approaches, silence is broken by the one out of tune. The one out of tune, the bird who never tires, awakens the master singers. And before first light, all the birds in the world begin their serenade at the window, sailing over the flowers, over their reflections.
A few sing for love of the art. Others broadcast news or recount gossip or tell jokes or give speeches or proclaim delight. But all of them, artists reporters, gossips, wags, cranks, and crazies, join in a single orchestral overture. Do the birds announce the morning? Or by singing, do they create it?
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