Mornings here before the sun are little cacophonies of sounds. Sitting in my room I feel away from it since that one bird whatever it is singing it’s plaintive sound is separated by glass.
So I move out to the balcony. The roosters have a gang. The dog barks from somewhere. Then the bird says,
Who oo. Who oo. Who oo
Like a melancholy heart finding their love is not there. Calling out. But the only answer is the rooster gang.
Some people start work on Saturday like the shop across the street that does deliveries of all kinds of mops and brooms and cleaning supplies to businesses. Voices drift to tue balcony. Work is given out. The men start raising the doors and their day begins.
Mine has yet to really. I write and read and bear silent witness to mornings in yet another place. Each place has a spirit and soul of the morning. I think of wondrous and slow mornings in Can Tho town in the Mekong delta in Vietnam. The powerful rivers. The sounds.
Roosters. They must have the most powerful passports of all. Their off key morning salutes bounce around the mornings here. And there. And everywhere. I welcome them on the balcony and the most powerful primal force is slowly announcing. In one quarter the sky turns to a wonderful pink. More birds find a voice.
Good morning everything says. Glad you could make it.