And so it begins.
There's always one. At the onset of summer, we begin a long-standing tradition in the garden. Right about midnight, a mockingbird begins his repertoire.
He goes through a whole list of various calls, repeatedly, trying one out over and over until he feels like he's perfected it. Then he moves on to another one. That one gets a few minutes of practice, and on to the next. Ad nauseum.
Eventually, the little performer puts his whole symphony together into one continuous string and goes through the whole production, all the way through.
This would be lovely at 2 in the afternoon. At two in the morning, after two hours of learning the pattern, it becomes an OCD-like obsession that needs to be blocked out lest there be a risk of complete insomnia, followed by the impossibility to wake up in any shape to face the day.
Right now, he's at the beginning of his little oeuvre and I am determined to ignore him and fall asleep.
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