We must be now halfway to the Equator from our old home back in the States that snugs against the Canadian border. When today’s alarm goes off a little after 6:30—up early to go hiking—it might as well be in the middle of the night for only the darkness shows. Twenty minutes later, though, coffee in hand on our balcony, looking past the guava and palm trees we see a fire-colored sun beginning to rise into the lightening sky. For some minutes, the only noise we hear is from the roosters scattered throughout our pueblo: their many rousing greetings of old sol. There’s one guy who’s closest, somewhere in the middle of the block across the street, another behind us must be located near the parish church by the plaza, and many more are indistinguishable—their hoarse, piercing, five-syllable calls come from out west away from the Centro. It isn’t long before the colibris—hummingbirds—join this cacophonous chorus from a tropical tree with a riot of purple blooms that rises out of the galeria’s garden across the street, sounding like a bunch of tiny typewriters according to my spouse…Then the parroquia's bells begin to ring for morning mass.
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