Power saw a block away, and the bamboo wind-chime clink of cut lumber falling on cut lumber.

Out front, the doppler of a dog, rampant in the back of a passing pickup, switching from side to side where other dogs were known to live along the way.

Near at hand, looking sideways at me as if I might be gardening, the curved-bill thrasher I have named “the liquid bird” for its morning call.

Down the street, children at play. A small child’s voice: “I can do it! Let me ... No! Let me do it!” A pause, and then: “Somebody help me!”

Bio: Daryl Scroggins