Thinking back to that time he walked from his car to his gate, one evening after work, head full of plans and numbers, then catching sight of an enormous white cloud miles above the modern cornered building, then recalling the sound of that garden bird, its cutting voice slicing deliciously across his throat and chest, then on to the sound of that young child, calling out to herself a few gardens along, enthralled by the summer evening…“Where, oh where is the quality control now?” he laughed to himself, overcome with relief.
Constant Voice 