Dogs of the Sky

Saturday morning my eyes popped open at five a.m. Nothing had woken me. No dreams, no noises and certainly no alarm. It was getting light out and I was startled to note that I am now burning more daylight than ever. I got up and made tea.
I have the need for some kind of morning ritual, it seems. The transition from sleep to wake is, let's say, traumatic. ( Linguistic note: Traum is German for dream ). At the cafe, I do like the dogs do, greet everyone and check to see if there is any pleasant distractions to chew over. I could have pedaled to the cafe and let myself in, made some coffee and flexed my mental muscles into action there. I didn't. I bundled up and sat outside on an overcast morning, listening to the early risers tweet and whistle.
Nothing especially noteworthy to report. No orange sunrise, rays slanting into the world. No deep blue sky. Just the warm green tea, my patio and me. Except for those crows.
Their song is akin to a badly tuned violin. Grating and raucous and repetitive. The Death Metal of the bird song world. Like cutting into a car with a skill saw. There was some kind of concert going on at Pioneer Park, a couple of blocks from my humble mansion. Craw, craw and craw, over and over and over.
I heard the whistle of a eagle, a twittering, frightened sound, a stark contrast to the size and abilities of that raptor. They sound lost and sad and lonely. More barking crows. Another whistle. More shredding and ripping and scraping. Finally, the eagle drifted along overhead, floating, wings motionless, out of sight. The crows damped down their throat clearing a notch. One arrived in the fir tree that towers over my humility of a house. Here we go again. Another joined in. Before long, I was even trying to crow. Can't ignore 'em, might as well join 'em. I went back to bed.