Little Feathered Demons

One of my least favorite signs of spring are bird. I know, how dare I? They're so singy and flappy and majestic-y.
However, they're also poopy and making-nests-in-the-awnings-of-my-house-y. The awning thing is the worst, as many a morning occurs when my feathery alarm clocks go off a little too obscenely early with their fighting and feeding and one other 'f' word.
The birds also lead to one of the most poignant signs of spring: the first botched carwash. My better half himself was one of the many who rushed to get all the salt washed off his car only to have it be completely (and hilariously) befouled and besmirched just hours later.
I have hopes that my views on birds will change someday, however. On one of the first nice days in early March we somehow managed to get to brunch at Bob Evans on a weekday. We were given a window seat surrounded by tables full of munching octogenarians, and outside the window was a tree with about 10 or 12 robins in it.
Every. Single. Table. was discussing those robins, and the wonder and joy and awe and Spring that they inspired. So maybe birds seem lovelier when you're 80? I simply cannot wait to find out.