by Babo Kamel 祥晨 孟 that the sun’s humming this morning, a tune from long ago summer when the percolator kept time with a dream unfolding, each pop a call to join the day’s jazz and those early hours emerged soft, like the sound of bullrush in breeze or the chimes of church bells, that time in Blanc Sablon when one by one the doors of the shingled houses opened like momentary invitations and the townsfolk converged along the one dirt road, greeting each other to the coastal mo