As the first light of dawn spills across the rolling hills of Lubango, a lone thrush sings its clear, flute-like call — *Thrush2* leading the chorus with crystalline warmth. The gentle *Spring* layer weaves in the soft rustle of awakening leaves and distant meadow breath, while *Birds1* adds a hazy halo of morning voices just beyond the ridge. Beneath it all, the faint *calm-ocean-breeze* carries a whisper of distance, like the memory of the Benguela Current far to the west. This golden hour hus