I wake to Pistachio’s whistle—sharp and bright—
my wife’s cockatiel calling out like a ringtone
set by the sun itself—persistent and shrill—
the way birdcalls slip unnoticed into dreams.
For a moment, I think she’s inside my cell phone,
trapped behind the glowing screen,
her beak tapping at the glass
like she’s trying to text me something urgent.
But no, she’s on her perch by the window,
tilting her head at the drone of notifications—
her head bobbing in time with its hum,
ready to join whatever song it’s singing.
I swipe at the screen—Snooze, Dismiss, Clear—
but the pings keep happening, a sound
as steady as a breathing metronome,
and Stashy looks more frustrated
with every beat that goes unanswered.
She calls again, higher this time,
and suddenly I see her— not here,
but stretched tall before an orchestra,
perched on the conductor’s shoulder,
her feathers fanned like the tails of tuxedos.
The strings hold their breath,
the kettle drums lean in,
and Pistachio steps forward,
delivering her solo in a dozen bright notes
that rattle the chandeliers.
The phone vibrates in approval.
And I’m not sure if I’m still dreaming
because suddenly she flies to me,
lands on my shoulder, warm and impossibly light,
she leans in and whispers something
I cannot hear above a piccolo’s creschendo,
but I know she is mocking me,
something snide about the New Year.
And when I glance down, it’s in my lap,
the phone fully present and blooming
—a beady, black, unblinking eye on the screen—
already certain I’ll spend the year badly,
silencing reminders for things I’ll never quite finish.