Droning tones of call to prayer drift ghostly in unpopulated fog. Eerie specters to the ears roam from home to home. They’re peering in windows, creeping through doors, searching for believers. The cold predawn defies the rule holding people in their beds, but it relinquishes them reluctantly. Duties must be fulfilled.
A small stone in River of Stones entry.
As a footnote: We live in a predominantly Hindu neighborhood, but the Muslim call to prayer can be heard in the distance. In the stillness of the early morning, before the sun comes up, it has a very eerie quality.