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By GERALD S. HAWKINS
Rappahannock News Contributing Writer
I like to watch the shadow of the farmhouse as the sun comes up over the ridge. At dawn the outline of the house and the row of trees projects onto the far slope of the valley, and it moves like a sundial, minute by minute, to the branch below.
One morning in July, I was watching the shadow as the sun came up.
The grass was glistening with dew, and the wrens and cardinals were singing in the cherry trees. But above this dawn chorus there was a different sound, like a creaking door in a haunted house. Of course, that was impossible, because there were open fields all around.
The sound was coming from the edge of the woods. I looked carefully
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