"Shuuuuuuuuuut uuuuuuuuuuuuup," I groan into my pillow.
Tweet. Warble. Cheep cheep cheep.
It's 4:23 am, and the miracle of nature has woken me up.
I'm not one of those people who can roll over and go back to sleep. My rest is officially shot. I now understand Sylvester's frsutration.
At 6, I blunder downstairs, muttering curses and epithets. It's Shabbos morning, which adds insult to injury. I plan to get a gun.
My niece is scandalized by my violent impulses.
"Lea!" she chides, "He's singing Shirah!"
What can one say after that?