**New moon**

Midnight. I’m blown awake by a bird screeching outside. I scramble out of bed, draw back the curtains, fling open the window and launch my head out to search for the culprit. But the moon refuses to expose my assailant and the black night forces me to end my search after 0.1 seconds.

**Waxing crescent**

Three nights later, midnight. I'm asleep with my back to the window. The bird screeches a sorry song. I turn over and try to go back to sleep. There's another screech. I slyly coil myself into a ball. As the next screech starts, I unravel rapidly and fling myself out of bed. I have my head out of the window before I touch the floor. I miss my enemy but against a sliver of moonlight I spy a feather floating down towards me. I reach out and snatch at it. Hoping for my first clue, I pull my hand back in and open my palm. A long, black feather, it will make a good quill when I come to write the eulogy for my foe's funeral.

**First quarter**

Three nights later, five minutes past midnight. Five minutes ago, I was laying on the edge of the bed immediately next to the window. I really do mean immediately, I pushed the bed right up against it before I went to sleep to draw the beast into my blast radius. Before that, I had constructed an intricate string and pulley system with the end of the string tied around my big toe. It was designed so when I heard the screech and stood out of bed, the network of wires would tighten and yank the window open automatically, buying me an additional half second and allowing me to grab the bird hovering outside. Unfortunately, moving the bed was a last-minute decision that meant there was no space for me to stand when the screech came. By the time I wriggled out of the end of the bed, the bird had gone, and I was caught in a spider's web with my feet in the air, one hand out of the window and my other arm pinned across my eyes, blinding me. This is where I currently reside and it is surprisingly comfortable, I think I will spend the night here, not that I have much choice.

**Waxing gibbous**

Three nights later, midnight. The screech comes but I don’t bother getting up. I'm low in confidence and struggling to motivate myself. However, I know I will have to address the problem eventually, so I take the opportunity to ask ChatGPT when the moon will be at its brightest and how to kill a bird. To the first it says three days, to the second it says with great difficulty. Incredible how accurate AI has become.

**Full moon**

Three nights later, one minute to midnight. This is the night. The visibility gifted by the moon means tonight is my best chance, so I haven’t slept and I've booked tomorrow off work. My bedroom smells like Starbucks, I have my biggest mug out and ten Nespresso pods tucked into my waistband like shotgun shells. I fire the first shot straight down my throat and park myself on a chair I put by the window, instead of the booby-trapped bed. I balance a toothpick in the corner of my lips and begin my stake out. I stay awake all night, but alas, the coward doesn't show and there's no screeching. It's annoying I've wasted a day of annual leave but at least the bird's gone and I can move on with my life.

**Waning gibbous**

Three nights later, midnight. Loudest screech yet and my three-day celebration comes to an end. I cancel a BBQ I was planning for the weekend, for which I had instructed guests to bring marinated chicken, duck, goose, guinea fowl and a Greek salad. The latter was slightly off-theme but no BBQ is complete without it.

**Third quarter**

Three nights later, midnight. I’m exhausted and hallucinate a screech. I drag myself to the window. My head droops out, threatening to tip my tired body over the threshold. Fortunately, a real and rattling screech deafens my right ear and perks me up. A split second after, my left ear is assaulted by a high-pitched squawk. She’s had a baby!

**Waning crescent**

Three nights later, 10pm. Tonight will be hard. I'll be hunting two fighter jets with very little light. I munch a carrot as I open the medicine box and pop two caffeine pills out of their blister pack. I'm past the big mug and shotgun shells now, they're inefficient. I take a sip of water and go to swallow the stimulants. Just before they land in my mouth, my wife slaps them away and, before I can protest, gives me a tiny plastic bag. Inside are a pair of industrial-grade, fluorescent yellow, foam ear plugs.