A spring sun shines on my work, and through the window I hear the chirrup of chicks calling for food. When I look to the source of the sound, it moves. I search among the china dogs and ornaments on the mantle above the fire, and on the bookcase. Everywhere I turn, the noise slides away. The old man sits in his corner, waiting for me to finish.
I continue working, but the trilling is insistent.
"What is that chirping I can hear?" I ask.
"Chirping? That will be my crickets. I keep them to feed the tarantula behind you."