At three? At four? When do the summer time birds begin their strident songs, their call to territory, food, enemies? It is as if I am in a jungle full of toucans, parrots, and peacocks, but it is the call of owls, finches, cardinals, and jays outside. Just now, they have quieted, but it is a trick, for they begin again, warbling as the sun rises, as my coffee gets cold. The birds wake the cats who in turn wake me. I tell the cats it is too early for food, but they ignore my logic. They want to eat birds, I suppose, and poke me. It is hours before the Sunday Times’ arrival. In the early light, I decide to identify the tall, strong grass that has been rising steadily on the balcony. It is quack grass. Of course it is. A noisome sound, an irritant to sleep. In the end, they will win, with luck, the birds and the weeds, while insomnia will fell us. Best have another cup in the face of it.