A different kind of tweet

There is a different kind of tweet. One that has nothing to do with bits and bytes, algorithms, or whatever is happening on whatever platform we’re all arguing on this week.

Every morning, one of the first items of business is taking Rose and Iris outside. They have opinions about this — strong ones, communicated at volume — and there is no negotiating. So out we go.

Our backyard is fenced, heavily planted, and at that hour still catching the first light. And every morning, before the day gets its hands on me, there’s a few minutes where the only sound is birdsong and two beagles conducting their daily security sweep of the perimeter.

I don’t know enough about birds to tell you exactly who’s out there. A cardinal here and there — hard to miss. Whatever makes that particular liquid sound in the oaks. The occasional territorial dispute I’m not qualified to adjudicate. But the collective effect of it, the layered chorus that starts quiet and builds as the sun comes up, is something I’ve come to count on in a way I didn’t expect.

There’s a lot of noise in a given day. Most of it is made by humans, and most of it is optional in ways we’ve convinced ourselves it isn’t. The birds are not optional, exactly — they’re just there, doing what they do regardless of whether I’m paying attention. Which might be why paying attention to them feels like such a relief.

It’s a small thing. Fifteen minutes, maybe, before the coffee kicks in and the calendar asserts itself. But it’s mine, and it’s quiet, and it is — without exaggeration — one of the most peaceful parts of my day.

The dogs are less peaceful. But they’re part of it too.