After a rainy night of disquiet, as the cloudy morning comes, he sits and stares out of the window, a coffee cup in hand, at the Bird Central Station, a feeder that hangs from the dogwood. A whirl of wings, waiting, fighting, eating, departing from the two holes - very much like two ticket counters - that dispense seeds from a glassy tube. At some point he has learnt all their names, and as each of them descends from a tree to the feeder, he calls out their names: cardinal, house finch, titmouse, chickadee, two kinds of woodpeckers (red bellied & downy), and finally a hovering spot of lovely golden yellow, a gold finch. All of them are twenty or so in number, and they have come singly, as couples, or as in the case of the cardinals, as a family to assert the desire of living in a world which, even when it appears inert, is never dead. And that will be his morning parable, a truck painted in a bright bird colors as it floats down in the morning traffic of all his thoughts.