Stefan Kahl 2025-09-12T23:35:27Z
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For years, the woods behind my cabin felt like a beautiful prison. Every dawn, a riot of chirps and warbles would pull me from sleep – a secret language I ached to understand. I’d squint through binoculars till my eyes watered, only to glimpse fluttering shadows. Notebooks filled with clumsy descriptions: "high-pitched trill, like a rusty hinge," or "liquid gurgle near the creek." Pure frustration tasted like stale coffee on those silent walks home.