The daily crows of a nearby rooster is
the daily reminder I’m not in Brooklyn anymore.
My urban ears grew up on a special diet of ambulances, bus squeals, and the inescapable chatter of neighbors.
There’s a tiny, dark baby squirrel running in the grass near my shoeless feet.
I think it’s a squirrel. I’m afraid of the tiny, rodent alternative.
I hear a symphony of birds and squirrels and falling leaves. Noisier than any city day in my memory book.
Eeek! Nature! It’s a twister!