(Or, Cheep Alarm Clocks)

The world starts with the songs of a hundred birds.

My eyes snap open and all I see is the ceiling through the dim light of morning. My hand is already reaching for my glasses on the nightstand when my brain finally registers where I am.

I'm in a sleeping bag, in a tent. There isn't a nightstand, which explains the empty air my hand is grasping. My glasses are in a mesh pocket sewn into the wall behind me.

I squint at the watch on my wrist and note the time. Ten minutes to six.

I stare at the ceiling and listen to the birds. Perhaps there aren't as many as I first thought. A dozen, perhaps, but their constant cawing and chirping are so loud and intense that an imagined flock of a hundred doesn't seem so far-fetched.

After five minutes, the birds stop. I close my eyes.

The sound of a single footstep breaks the silence. It's alarmingly close to the tent. I hold my breath. A few seconds pass, then another footstep, followed in quick succession by three more.

I slowly sit up and peer through the mesh walls of the tent. To my surprise and relief, it's only a large blue jay. It doesn't notice me and hops away from the tent. It sounds like footsteps retreating.

I recline and tuck my hands back in the sleeping bag. I close my eyes again knowing I won't be able to fall back asleep. While feigning, I doze off.

Thirty minutes later, I'm dressed and outside. It's cold and overcast. The camp is quiet. No one else is awake yet.

To be one of the first ones up is a secret joy of mine. It's a head start on the day. It's an opportunity for an early morning hike.

As quietly as I can, I pack my gear and tiptoe out of camp. The way is covered with fallen leaves and every dry leaf crushed beneath my boot sounds like firecrackers. Nobody stirs.

By the time I return from my hike, an hour has passed. The camp shows signs of life, at least human life.

For now, the birds have disappeared high into the trees. They'll be back again tomorrow to start the world with a song.