It doesn’t matter whether the sun breaks free of its night-time prison in a glorious conflagration of pink and yellow or if it approaches coldly in wan white and pale blue, the birds will up and announce its coming as soon as light wakes them from their arboreal sleeping places. Either way, they do not sing of our star’s beauty because there is enough color on each of their feathered ******* to inspire symphonies. Instead, they only call out a discordant cry that is later echoed by the two-legged inhabitants of this earth: “Look at me, look at me, look at me.”