The birds seem loudest between the hours of 3 and 4 in the morning – lonely, deserted hours. Ungodly hours. 

The white city noise is dormant. Even in such a metropolis, the imagination is tempted toward reveries of apocalyptic solitude; not a soul, not a body; not a rustle, not a grumble. 

Except the birds…the silence must be too big. They call to each other, as relaxed as opera singers in the shower – and infinitely more talented. Perhaps they get a little stage fright during normal hours, or perhaps they are simply drowned out. I know I would be scared; roaring cars and clanking machinery would drive me to my nest. But they sing; they fill the sonic gaps left by the rest of us. They keep the song going.