BAGHDAD (AP) - My window panes rattled again Wednesday morning. That told me two things: Another mortar attack was under way and the mood in the Green Zone was about to change quickly.

Joggers disappear from the streets. People normally walking around in T-shirts and jeans toss on body armor and helmets. Any plans to leave your compound are abruptly canceled. Nerves become strained. E-mails zip between Green Zone pals, asking if anyone was hurt.

The war - usually fought on the other side of the 15-foot concrete blast walls - is falling again on Baghdad's famous fortified oasis that includes the U.S. and British embassies, many Iraqi government offices, thousands of soldiers and security staff, a few journalists and others.

The Green Zone has been a target for mortars and rockets for years. But this week has been particularly noisy and dangerous.

Several rockets struck Tuesday as part of widening attacks by forces loyal to anti-American cleric Muqtada al-Sadr. Wednesday morning brought another brief salvo. A long barrage Sunday - as Westerners in the Green Zone celebrated Easter - killed one U.S. government employee. Twelve Iraqi's also were killed outside the Green Zone, apparently by short-falling salvos.

The first Easter blasts, about 6 a.m., jolted me awake. I hustled to the first floor of my building.

One of my first thoughts was of the Easter mornings of my childhood, when my sister and I would race downstairs to search for the chocolate eggs our parents had hidden around the house.

This day, I found mortar fragments in the front yard.

The recent attacks, which usually begin about sunrise, prompt the same ritual: I throw on some clothes, grab a notebook and head downstairs, all the time trying to keep count of how many mortars or rockets have hit.

Then I'll poke my head out the front door and get the attention of a security guard. I don't speak Arabic. So I employ what I call Baghdad mortar mime.

I use my fingers to count off "one ... two ... three ... ?" to ask how many rounds the guard heard.

I then pointed first east then west (mortar mime for "Where did they land?"). On Sunday, the guard smiled and pointed over my head, indicating he thought the mortars came directly over us and landed a street or two away.

At that point, there was little to do but report what I could and head back inside for breakfast.

A young Iraqi man cooks in the mornings where I live. While I do not think anyone becomes comfortable with mortars, this lifelong Baghdad resident certainly did not seemed too bothered by them.

"Yes, yes, nearby. No problem," he quickly told me, cracking eggs on the griddle.

As he flipped my over-easys he was already moving to his favorite topic: his girlfriend. Then, in mid-sentence, he calmly said "rocket" and a few seconds later we heard the impact.

I was impressed - like a basketball player who knows his jump shot will hit nothing but net. Katyusha rockets, he informed me, whine when they fly nearby. But my ears were not trained well enough to hear it.

Here is to hoping they never will be.