It's pig slaughtering day at the neighbor's farm.
I'm hanging out my laundry when I hear these deep moans coming from downhill. Last year, this sound made my skin crawl, thinking people somewhere were mourning some great loss, and I wondered where the accident was. Now, though, I know where it comes from.
The sound escalates into a single high-pitched squeal for several seconds, almost like a child crying after falling and skinning its knee. Then it decrescendos to the same dull cry of lamentation. Or one of a last hope for survival.
The cars continue to race by on the highway. The kids splash around in the pool. The birds chirp.
Enjoy that weekend bacon, everyone.
(P.S. No, I'm not a vegetarian. But at times like this, I think maybe I should reconsider.)
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