The singer

Somewhere out back, there is a young singer. I think I know which house is his, but my view is impeded by a large evergreen. Every night round about 8 o'clock, he pumps away on his squeaky swing set, singing away to his heart's content. I can never tell what it is he is singing, but his delight is evident from the gusto of his delivery. He has a developmental challenge, perhaps Down Syndrome. He may not know he's singing off key, but it is very clear that he enjoys his nightly swing-and-sing sessions. Our first night here, I was somewhat annoyed by the protesting screech of the swing, and the warbling of the child; but now we all wait for it each night, and feel comforted by the tuneless lullaby.

Encore, little singer!