As the sun nears setting, a house finch flies up to the high power wire, presents his rose breast to the fading orange light. He becomes the exclamation point in the gladness of coming twilight, and knows it, crowning the grassy hills, the cooling breeze, the trees suspiring heat. He does not sing - it would be unnecessary, in fact, too much. Everything might burst apart with joy. But far below, from some cattails, a redwing winds his dry-ratchet throat. Just the right note, building a tower of rest from the marsh up through the fields to the sky with his matter-of-fact conclusion.