Tastes like chicken …
When I was a little girl, after dad left and there was really no way to pay to fix the dryer, mom went back to hanging stuff out on the line to dry.
“The line” was about a hundred feet of vinyl-covered, braided-steel wire strung between two pulleys – one attached to the house, the other to the tree at the far north-west corner of our lot.
There was an indescribable sound that came off that line – an unholy, rhythmic asynchronicity from the two slightly out-of-synch pulleys that defined alpha and omega for this primitive setup. Remarkably, this exact sound greets dawn in Kona – a rhythmic, inescapable screech emitted by some breed of tropical bird … at 6:00 AM, I find myself wondering “white meat, or dark ..?.”