One of my favorite break-of-day pastimes is sitting outside, embracing the coolest air of the day while listening to morning bird song, those ethereal tunes that soar with the soul on updrafts of joy, carrying my heart to consecrated heights. This morning, the only bird songs so far are the melancholic moans of the mourning dove, a song I've grown to dislike but not as much as I despise the honk of the Canadian Geese, probably more for the shit they leave everywhere when flocks congregate, more than their braying honk. But the bird and honk and shit are one and the same in the primitive centers of my mind, specifically the amygdala, triggering my fight, flight, or freeze response. Thankfully, my prefrontal cortex stays my hands from illegally wringing their slender, midnight-hued necks.