The spotted towhees are pissed. Instead of filling their birdbath promptly this morning, my husband and I made pancakes. I sip tea and watch them rampage through the mulch, raking bits of bark into the air with their tiny golden dinosaur feet. If I don’t act soon, they will move to the flowerpots and dig up any seedlings they find, in protest of our sloth. A pair of big fat robins look on, hopping around the trunks of the pine trees, their white-framed eyes comically indignant above their puffed-out orange breasts. I put on my garden clogs, grab the watering can, and head to the spigot. The air is full of house finch music. Before returning inside, I spot a juniper titmouse perched at the top of a juniper, a ball of pearl-gray floof in a pointed hat, trilling a couple rounds of mating call before launching into flight. It’s a darn peaceful feeling, being engaged with the comings and goings of my neighborhood’s feathered denizens. Not once do I pick up my phone to check the n