As I drifted off last night, I listened to the whooing of high winds around the window. Now and again, the rise and fall of the wind played a taut wire into a gargling screech. I could imagine this sound (were I truly disposed that way) to be some shrivelled thing, screaming with frustration at not being able to get inside. If there are monsters, they are sometimes other people, and those we make ourselves. I recall falling asleep with infinitely sweeter visions in my mind.
I stood making coffee this morning, still dark outside. In those last few moments of night before the sky begins to lighten, I heard the most beautiful birdsong coming from the garden. It was clearly a tiny bird, singing with enormous heart: a loud, long, melodic song.