What do the birds know that I don't?

This morning I awoke
without the hangover from dancing I expected,
and before the alarm, to birdsong.

A mourning dove was calling
a major song in minor key,
and sparrows littered the air
as they litter a city.

In the afternoon
I passed a murmuration on Gap Hill,
starlings in an undulating ribbon, seeming to hover
and tapering to a point, turning south.

It's been two years
since I fed birds at my window,
and still I hear the scratch
of feet on the screen, chickadees
who remember.