Nicaragua: 3:47a.m.

I wake up suddenly, for apparently no reason.  I toss and turn a little bit, finally ending up laying on my back.  I close my eyes, hoping to float away inside that helium balloon we call sleep.  That is when you hear it, like a weak signal on the radio--that hidden station you always turn past: the distant cries of hundreds of roosters like a brass band of condemned sinners marching their pathetic march to the gates of hell, accompanied by the endless wretched barks of dogs already burning.  Enough to raise the hair on the back of your neck, and leave you awake, praying, for the rest of the night.