Only those who have not spent a sleepless night listening to the unrelenting repertoire of a mockingbird can still love him. Thankfully, they change their chirps and tweets and caws, or I fear it’d be much worse for six hours straight. Yes, they can and do go non-stop. One summer’s night the man and I, sweaty, anxious, moved to the very edges of our sanity both crept out in the darkness and aimed an arrow each at he who sat warbling upon our rooftop. There is no aim in dark of night, but flying twigs with feathers were all we hoped for, and succeeded in finally frightening him away.
At least, for that one night.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology