The sky has just begun to lighten when the backyard rooster clears his throat. He begins to crow, aiming his strident call at the edge of the dawn where the moon sinks as the sun heaves itself over the horizon. Ribbons of color trail one another, and my man and I are too riveted by the glow to pay attention to the bird until his cry shatters the colors. My man answers with a Tarzan yell. A double set of loops tumbling into the morning, one smothering the other.
Which is the alarm and which is the all clear? I wonder.