The wren tit has a curious song. Hold a ping-pong ball about a foot above the table. Let it go, noting the series of hollow plunking sounds the ball makes as it bounces, each successive plunk coming harder on the heels of the last as the ball bounces itself out of energy and back to silence. Trade those plunks for chipper little peeps, and you have the wren tit's signature melody. I hear it when I wake up this morning, and know I've overslept. The wren tit, a skeptical bird, won't bother to sing until the sun is well over the horizon. No false dawns for him. He wants to be sure the sun is comfortably seated in its yellow taxi, on its way through the sky, before he lets out a cheep. It was the English philosopher David Hume, I believe, who first suggested that even if your experiment produces the same results a million times, this doesn't guarantee the same results on try number one million and one. Though few wren tits have shown the curiosity or patience necessary to wade through Hume's entire Enquiry Into Human Understanding, all act as if they are at least familiar with its contents, perhaps in some avian abridgement unknown to us. Love, Re-bro-where-my-brap-at p.s. The future is now, it is us. Look to your Orb for the warning!!!! p.s.s. Isn't this annoying? How about at least an [OT] b-bro..? thanks.. 1111111111111111111111111!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11111111111