Inside this house…
there is no tv blaring.
There is no radio with cool evening jazz.
No Steeleye Span brought back from the dead on YouTube.
Instead, there is cricket sound from the windows, and the gurgle of the cat as he dreams his dreams of glory and songbirds. A pair of neighbors returns from downtown, walking purposefully past our front gate, laughing and talking. Headed home.
The train hasn’t been through in almost an hour, blasting its way clear on the grade-level crossing below the hill.
I can hear the traffic on the big bridge. Distantly. No fire trucks or ambulances right now. No big trucks with their screech of brakish disaster.
The concert on the river has finished for the evening.
It seems to me I hear autumn arriving, setting down her garment bag and her rolling suitcase. In a few minutes, I’ll make her a nice cuppa tea.