The rain is quiet, steady, so unlike the riotous storms of the evening. There was thunder, earlier, but it seems to have thought better of all that noise and upset.
The birds, too, are oddly subdued for the hour, although the occasional disgruntled chirp emerges, protesting, from the vines that choke a neighbor’s tree.
The planes must be taking off to the south, or not at all. The ritual rumble of early commutes is utterly absent.
A car, periodically. A car door, even, but less frequent.
Soft kitchen sounds as D. makes eggs and oatmeal. Silverware and microwaves speak loudest, most clearly.
In a bit there will be children’s chatter and the next-to-last school bus pick-up for the year, its grinding, weighty heft swallowing the little voices and laughter before it hauls them off.
And the rain patters on.