The birds wake to the crescendo of the kettle boiling. It is one of those sounds they have come to know means humans are nearby. They also thrill to the toilet flushing and the hall door squeaking.

What they love best, though, is the sound of water running. Does it remind them of some avian past when their relatives roosted near brooks and springs so they could sip small drops in that way birds do, a way that is more of a splash than a drink?

Or do they simply love the sound of it best, as I prefer Brahms and Mendelssohn? I’ll never know, of course. But I do know that I thrill to the sound of their waking, to the warbling and the rustling, to the   peeps and songs of these feathered creatures, so small, so delicate, so alive in every way.