The Great Birdnik

All last night, The Great Birdnik was singing outside the Great Plotnik's window. He sang like his last worm depended upon it. He sang arias from all the great Birdnik Operas, beginning with the first from the first and finishing with the last from the last. He moved on to pop songs and Broadway favorites.

Midway through this lovely concert, The Great Plotnik deduced that The Great Birdnik must not have realized it wasn't morning. Maybe he had just flown in from Europe and was having trouble sleeping. Or perhaps he had been singing all day and it just took this long to get through his entire repertoire.

Soon, however, Plotnik heard a second bird, a more sedate bird, an audience bird, perhaps a sweetheart bird. She was singing too, in a softer voice, that, to The Great Plotnik, seemed to imply notes hidden inside notes, messages only a best friend could hear, and a longing deeper than birds, or words, can ever say.