The roofers without safety harnessess, scampering up and down the next door neighbor’s tower--and it is a tower--totally unnerved me, so I took off promising myself that I’d write for an hour at the beach.
When I arrived I discovered that Hurricane Bill left a calling card from his trip up from the South last weekend. Though remaining far out to sea, his surge covered two thirds of the beach with deep piles of rotting seaweed. Where there is seaweed there are bugs and let's just say, a certain aroma. So back in the car, with the windows rolled down and the breeze flirting with my left ear, I listened to the waves, the seagulls, the chatter of the two toddler boys wandering through the piles of crackling sea grass. At home earlier in the day, before pounding hammers and my worry chased me out, I heard other things:
Sounds of Wednesday Morning
The hiss and hollow echo of the water from my daughter’s shower which backs up to the wall of the cubby where this computer sits.
Commuting cars whizzing and breezing as they journey down the rock lined street.
Pick-up trucks filled with equipment jostling and bouncing; always crashing as they hit the divot in the road just before our house.
The beep, beep, beep of a red cabbed tractor-trailer, backing up while delivering supplies next door.
Distant birds singing "cheero-cheero" and one closer in singing "squeet, squeet;" a blue jay’s harsh bleat that dominates them all.
Computer keys, tapping, pausing, tapping again, the higher pitch clink of the space bar.
Jets, whispering, muttering, crescendoing to a vibrating roar as they swing up the coast to Logan. Cicadas mimicking them as they begin their own high pitched buzzing, escalating to a long electric saw whine.
A crow cawing high in the pine trees, a hummingbird pulsing at the feeder down low.
The clank and slide of adjustable ladders and muttering conversations from the men on the roof next door as they peel green shingles from the vaulted tower that over looks our yard.
Every morning sounds of life as it is each day, starting softly, then growing, filling the yard, the house; my world with noise.