Morning Music

In the rice fields just across the little road from my villa, farmers bang on planks of sheet metal and howl and hoot in a daily effort to frighten away the birds that come to feed on the new rice. The birds flock in the morning and the farmers bang in the morning, and I wake to this every day, around about 6 o'clock. I don't mind. It's kind of like the sound of ranchers rounding up cows. It is better, I reckon, than car engines and wailing sirens and the roar of the freeway. There is something far more pleasant about the human voice even at this pitch. And each of these farmers has his own little yodel, so to speak, each his favorite vowel and cadence. And we all know that the heat of the day will soon chase the birds to shadier regions, where they themselves might sing their songs in peace. The entire creation is looking to thrive, each creature in its own manner. I brew a cup of tea, wishing it were coffee, and plod out to the porch where the dog is faithfully waiting. I sit and sip my tea and smoke a cigarette and read the morning news, still listening, at least with one ear. Eine Kleine Morning Music.