A Formal Petition to the Feathered Knights

A Formal Petition to the Feathered Knights

To the noble birds who once called the window outside my room home—

I know we’ve had our differences. I’ve grumbled. I’ve complained. I may have even threatened to evict you with muttered curses and half-hearted shoe tosses. Your early morning chirping was not appreciated by a sleep-deprived autistic who wrestles with insomnia and a brain that refuses to shut off.

But oh, how the tides have turned.

For now, I find myself haunted by a new tenant: the relentless, vibrating, high-frequency Cicada of Doom. Its siren song—made with actual rib bones, by the way—is both biologically fascinating and absolutely torturous to my nervous system. Its buzz drills into my skull with the intensity of a thousand dentist tools on loop. I cannot rest. I cannot think. I cannot even scream because I’m too overstimulated to formulate words.

So, to the birds: I take it all back.

Your chirps, your fluttering wings, your constant nest rearranging—I would welcome it all again. Nay, I would rejoice in it. Please, I beg you, return to your perch outside my window. Nest again. Settle in. And bring your friends. Your enemies. Your entire extended avian network. Because I need your help. I need your hunger. I need your beaks turned toward battle.

For the Cicada Siren sings on… and I am but one sensory-sensitive soul who cannot fight this war alone.

With deepest regret and desperation,
Caleb, Chronicled Fighter, Autistic Sleepless Warrior of the Windowsill

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PS: I’ve cleared the windowsill. There’s fresh lint, spare threads, and bits of leaf for your building pleasure. Just… please come back.

Come, oh birds of feathered flight,
Descend once more by morning light.
With chirping swords and beating wings,
Undo the noise the Cicada sings.

Oh sparrows, robins, bluejay bold,
Your songs were warm, your nests were gold.
Return to claim your rightful place,
And drive this buzzing from my space.

I offer thread and twigs anew,
A royal perch with rooftop view.
I vow no more to curse or swat,
Your chirps are peace—the bug is not.

So come in flocks, in swarms, in flight,
And feast upon this bug of blight.
For I, your friend with quiet might,
Call forth the brave, the birds, the light.