Is it night or day? The 7 o’clock factory whistle has the answer. Two minutes later, the mockingbird begins to chirp—that take-charge tone.
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.