Today's word is "roosters" -- a word in two parts.
The first part you have heard from every other blogger since the flag was first planted in Blogland: Mexico is a veritable wall of sound -- not the Phil Spector type. That is not a criticism -- merely an observation.
My recent return to Melaque has given me an opportunity to hear Mexico with new ears. And hear it I have.
The symbol of the Mexican sound is the rooster. It is no coincidence that a proud rooster graces the cover of The People's Guide to Mexico.
Roosters are almost everywhere. Flocks of hens tended by a solitary king of the heap.
I live in a rural community. 10,000 people live in Melaque. But most of us live as if we owned 40 acres and a mule, and covered our gingham-trimmed walls with photographs of our long line of agrarian ancestors.
Horses. Goats. Mules. Cattle. Sheep. You can find them all within a few blocks of my house. But that barnyard mob is like the good child: best seen and not heard.
Not so the cock-a-doodle-doo set. As showy as a rooster may be -- and some would put Liberace to shame, he is best known for his non-Caruso voice.
I re-discovered that joy Saturday night. At some point in the dark of the Dylanesque night, I heard the distant crow of a lone cock. Then another. And another. Drawing closer and closer. Then passing over and beyond like some fowl Doppler Effect.
Each rooster waiting patiently for his turn to answer a perceived competitor's threat to pull a Clinton on his flock. Almost as inevitable as The Wave at a football game.
In some ideal land, roosters may merely greet the dawn and then go about their regular sultan duties. Not here. Crowing is a 24-hour duty. Territory must be defended.
These boys are just a few genes short of being fighting cocks. And some of the crowing comes from that odd breed of rooster awaiting his brief life as a champion.
But not all roosters are quite that disturbing. And that brings us to the second part of today's blog.
My friend Roy is visiting from Nevada. You remember him. Along with his beautiful wife Nancy, he visited me at the beach house in July.
On Sunday morning, we ate breakfast at Rooster's restaurant, a breakfast gathering spot for Canadians -- and a sprinkling of Americans.
No loud crowing there. Just the slow rhythm of Sunday breakfast. Eggs Benedict for the two of us. (And, yes, I know. That is not the way to start losing my Oregon-layered pounds.) Not an outstanding dish, but good enough to make up for a rooster-challenged night.
I realize that roosters were not what you expected to hear about today. I promised something else.
But, if you want to know what the future holds, I should have an answer for you tomorrow.
I promise.