The beach

 It was a hot day. Even though I am from a place that is rather close from the equator line of the Earth, the heat today in this Northern land was surprisingly hot. It is the kind of day when you would like to wear nothing but your birthday suit just to expel a bit more heat. Even at night time, I have to use my electric fan to cool down.
It is because it is hot, that I have to open my window. Had I have it closed, the moisture trapped inside makes the room unbearably heavy, and I find it hard to breathe in the stale air. But I would rather have it closed, if I can. The birds are a formidable force in this part of the Earth. No other creature could have had the mobility to migrate to wherever suits best for habitation like birds can. Not even humans. Just think about the hassle of moving just from one city to the next. The problem with bird is that they don't seem to take a rest. I do not understand if they have a circadian rhythm like most animals do, but they chirp all day, without rest. It might be exactly because they do have such a rhythm, as the sun doesn't set for 18 hours a day in the summer here.
At first, the chirping sounds nice, if you are living in the city filled with human shouting. But after listening to it for a while, they are not too far off of the same sound. Birds do not chirp for humans to listen. They do it out of their own circumstances. Of course humans are much more complex than birds, but they are similar when it comes down to the solution for communication.
Listening to the birds outside my room, I start to understand the reason why they work so hard to use such little resource they can find in the wild to create such powerful, violent sound. Had they not use that energy to thrash their throats out, I believe they could have enough food for a few years. Natural selection has guided them generation by generation to reward individuals who produce the most discerning frequency, at such an amplitude. Those who create such sounds threaten other individuals thanks to their oppressive presence, secure the best and/or the most mates. Basically they are successful in a bird's life, and that "voice" is passed down to their children to compete against each other. And it would do them no good not to use that golden voice given to them by their parents.
Me and my friends planned to go to the beach today. Such a perfect day to cool yourself down in the ocean. A nice breeze blows by my window, ruffles the curtain veil softly enough to graze my skin as the caress of a lover. It was past noon, around 3 o'clock on a Saturday. After some light packing, we head to the beach. There are a lot of people, but not too crowded. We easily find a seat under some shade of a tree.
The ocean is as cold as the sun is hot. Even though it was a hot day, I still shudder in the water. But it only takes a minute before it gets comfortable. My friend said: "It is a cold spring!" Get it? The opposite of hot spring. I believe it is also the opposite of hot spring in terms of hygiene. The sand blends in with the algae under my feet, embracing them like I am stepping on cold manure. Particles of unknown origin float around, tucking my fingers, tangoing with my skin. But I don't let that bothers me for long. My eyes are glued to the picturesque scenery. The clouds move so slow they appear to be standing still, sitting on top of a warm glaze of the sun, enveloping the pine trees on the other side of the shore, across the various shade of green and blue mixed palette of the sea. Glittering on the surface of the water, golden knives piercing through. But most enticing scene yet to my eyes are the curves, mellow and fulfilling, letting the one piece fabric dyed in the colour of the blue sky hug neatly to them, but not too tight, a relaxing fit, standing a few meters away from me. A woman. She was playing with two toddlers, carrying them around, letting them splash water in the muddy sand. Her voice carries a firm vibe you can typically hear in the language of this land, the sternness of a mother, but also as sweet as marshmallow melting over the campfire. When she turns around, and bends down to her children, you can have an idea why this woman has so many of them. There must be four of those little devils clinging around her. A man on the right, muscular and tanned, with some tattoo on the back, carrying two or three more of the kids, one or two at each side. The kids are probably not all of the woman in question alone. It turns out that it is a sea bathing session of multiple families together. But it was not a moment in my head that she was not the mother of all of them, not until I snapped myself out of it. Regardless of reasons, I believe that kind of scenario was entirely possible, had the Earth runs based only on appearance and desires. She went away when I looked again. The man was still there, with some of the kids.
The beach is some sight to behold. I have come to this beach multiple times, today was the first day I have come to bath in it. Coincidentally, quite a number of others had the same idea. It was Saturday after all, and a beautiful sunny day at that. My interest naturally had gone accustomed to the scenery, but the sight of these people is a novelty to me. They lay down on the sand, bathing in the sun, occasionally turning, like those frankfurters rolling behind the casing of a warming oven at the hot dog station. Kids and adults alike playing around, just having a great time under the sun, so it seems. There is an outdoor gym near by. A ripped dude doing pullups, his girlfriend sitting on the bench watching. After a few he goes there and they chat, kiss, and leave. Old man sitting on another bench, topless, looking at young guys pushing iron, seemingly reminiscing. Everybody who went there came with their group, but they were nonetheless drawn to look at other groups from time to time. Some tried to mingle, some just talked among their own.
I realized, that it is not the birds who were yearning for mate. It was the failure of my own mentalization that I projected my own desires on to these birds. Those crazy, violent, thrashing sounds could mean anything, but I will never truly understand them the way a bird do. They could mean anything. It may not that the birds inherited those voice. It could be of their own development. I cannot tell, because I am not a bird. It may sound the same to me but not to other birds of the same species. It may not sound crazy, violent, or thrashing at all to them, maybe only to me. It is perhaps the truth that I am the animalistic creature who deciphered those sounds chiefly based on how I view the world.