From the paper mill, the mournful note of the Protestant call to work. I watch an enormous horse-fly on the porch ceiling, ready to sprint.
The view from my front porch every morning, in 140 or fewer characters
From the paper mill, the mournful note of the Protestant call to work. I watch an enormous horse-fly on the porch ceiling, ready to sprint.
Rain drumming on the roof. A single bar of white-throated sparrow song, and then the factory whistle dividing the dawn from the day.