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The song of submission rang out over the market where the Mussalmans had already found a quiet alley and thrown down their mats for noonday prayers.

The noonday sun beat down on the back of my neck and beads of sweat dotted my forehead.

I pushed my mower out in the noonday sun right alongside the men — and one woman — in my neighborhood.

“If you spend yourselves on behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,” the prophet Isaiah said, “your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.”

The sheep were offering a symphony of guttural bleats punctuated with hollow tongs from bells dangling round their necks as Mr. Rogers and the dogs directed them toward a noonday water break.