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!