Recovered from Paths: The Book of Colors
The weather is cooler and we’re able to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows. With the cool breeze comes the sounds of the neighborhood, normally blocked by the glass.
In the night was the sound of the train, whistle fading, lowering as it moves away. The train travels close enough to hear but not so close as to hear too well.
This morning, I was awoken far too early by the truck picking up the garbage — a cacophony of crashing gate, motor whine, and the melodious clang, break, smash, and smoosh of garbage sliding into the maw of the damned beast. I put a pillow over my head until the bin is lowered and the truck begins to drive away. Relieved, I snuggle back under my comforter, prepared to continue my rather interesting dreams, only to hear the same process repeated at the bin a block down.
Mid-morning a mockingbird sits in the tree next to the townhouse and sings for whatever reason mockingbirds sing, and the sound is wonderous. And unusual as the bird switches between different types of song at the drop of a, well, feather. So much song for such a plain little gray bird.
The people across the way have guests, and when they arrive, there are cries of delight among them, each voice dripping with an accent as thick as mollasses on pancakes. I look up quickly, wondering why Dolly Parton’s here in my neighborhood. Not Dolly, but surely kinfolk of hers.
Tonight, the neighbor has friends over to watch the game. I don’t know what the ‘game’ is, but there is much yelling, cries of "All right!", and hands slapped in high fives, accompanied by great gulps of beer, punctuated by enormous belches.
Well, I didn’t really hear the hand slapping and the beer guzzling and the belches, but I know they’re there, just beyond the range of my hearing.