The world is alive … with the sound of nature. A song that’s been sung for a thousand years. This world fills my heart with the sound of nature. My heart wants to sing every song it hears.
Oh, boy, I really got going this morning. The roosters in the Kalaheo hillside were out in force. I’ve heard roosters only crow when they’ve been awakened by a light. One sees a light, wakes up another rooster — who probably hasn’t seen the light — and pretty soon the scattered flock is chiming in, sounding up, and joining the chorus.
If that’s true, we woke them first. That’s a switch.
They don’t write letters to the Forum complaining. Guess I’ll have to do it for them. I stand staunchly on the side of the rooster. Turn out the darn lights. Probably some drunk coming home late.
I think I’m lucky I live in old Hawaii. Surrounded by lots of open space. Cleanest, freshest air. Green hillsides full of cattle, horses, goats. Birds a twitter, when twitter was a sound and not a space in cyber.
“The sound of cattle mooing is a comforting sound,” my neighbor once said.
I like that. Once a bellering mama cow, trying to give birth, kept the entire neighborhood up all night. We were all relieved — and delighted — when a healthy, happy, baby boy plopped out at glorious sunrise in a grassy green pasture. His mama was vey proud. She licked him dry, and soon he was up and on his wobbly feet slurping breakfast.
We named him Sunny.
He lived a short fat life of luxury. Free. Fed. Watered. Loved. He gamboled. Then we grocked him to fullness. His parting was swift. Painless. I won his liver. Oh my, does anyone remember the taste of grass fed calf liver? You haven’t lived.
Soon at a little ladies afternoon party — back when I was doing “little lady” — the red or white-stemmed wine glasses, little fingers coiled, hair coifed, beef liver pate on a porcelain plate — a darling feral piglet, in broad daylight, invited itself in. I was proud of my guests. Not one of them fainted. We fed it crackers and cheese, it had such a soft little piggy snout, and soon trotted off to find his mama when she snorted.
And you want to talk about bird noise in the morning? Back in Transpac days with a rollicking, frolicking, drunken fleet of drunken sailors — boys and girl — awoke hungover to the max in Lahaina and those blankety-blank mynahs, at least a zillion of them in the monkeypods, hastened all of us hung over morning after nuts quickly to the bar at the Pioneer Inn to ease the pain. Pushing through the crowd of groaning staggering mankind, I threw rocks at the trees and swore. When I was racing with my husband I could swear in 14 languages. Sailors swear.
I’m getting better. I only swear, under my breath, at Kauai rooster haters.
I will defend, to the death, the rights of sleep deprived roosters, to crow. So there.
• Bettejo Dux is the author of “The Scam” and a resident of Kalaheo.