Prrt. Prrt. Prrt. One interrogatory note over and over again, like a telephone call from a bird deep in leaves. That’s what pulled me from sleep. The noise came from a chaffinch in the lime tree outside my window, and I lay watching the day grow bright listening to the sound move about in the tree behind the glass. It was a rain call, a beautiful name for a noise like an unanswered question. No one knows why chaffinches make it, but the name comes from an old tradition that it portends bad weather.