There is a small bird sitting in a tree outside my living room window. It is bigger than a chickadee and smaller than a robin, the two kinds of birds I see most often outside my window. It sounds like a squeaky toy being repeatedly bitten by a small, tenacious dog. Cheep. Cheep. Cheep. Cheep.

Cheep.

Cheep.

Cheep.

I love birds. I have developed a big love of birds in the past couple of years, whether because I have turned a corner into that age where people start caring about birds, or because I just started noticing them last summer when we were in Ontario and there were so many different songs and calls and cries every morning and evening. Perhaps a combination of the two. I have turned into that person who says to the children, “look, an eagle!” or “hey, is that a heron?” while they politely look at the sky and ignore me. Birds are fantastic; old, prehistoric, flying beasts with delightful wee beaks and scrabbly feet.

But not this bird. This bird, I want to hunt down and wreck. Last night I kept hearing it while I was inside and then I went out and walked up and down the path looking for it, muttering, “Shut it. Shut it.”

Cheep.

I did not even see it, just the flutter of leaves as it hopped from tree to tree, cheeping. Incessant cheeping! Cheep!

What does it want? Why does it cheep so? I must know. If I know, I won’t try to hit it with a pellet gun. Motivation is important. Tomorrow, squeaky bird, I will find you.