There’s a quiet concert that begins before my alarm ever thinks to ring. It starts small — a kind of whisper between the trees. A bird or two, their songs tentative at first, like they’re testing the air. Some mornings, it’s a warbler. Other days, it’s a chorus of sparrows that carry the melody. Their calls layer over one another, rising and falling with an elegance that no human arrangement could ever quite match. From my window seat, I don’t just see the morning — I hear it unfold. After the birds come the rhythms of human life. Somewhere down the block, a door creaks open with that familiar slow…