cacophony

There are endless sirens today, it seems. Even moreso up here at sky-level on my porch, where one siren sounds like fifty, echoing off the pavement, the rooftops, and up over the trees.

It's hard to tell where they're coming from. They just well up like a cloud of noisy dust, from the pavement to the sky to my ears. Now there are motorboats on the lake. Loud and engine-y. The next door neighbors are having a party. They're swimming in the pool. They're playing basketball. I hear shoes scuffing the concrete like abrupt sandpaper. I hear the boom, boom, boom of the ball hitting the ground. The creaky high school boy voices. The clinking of forks on plates. Splashing. Dog barking. African drums floating over from Memorial Auditorium. The ferry honking its horn.

More sirens. Someone beeps his car horn somewhere towards downtown. Engines running. Engines moving. People laughing. Kids yelling. And my phone rings. I don't answer.

I'm silent. I'm all alone. It's getting dark.

Five quacking ducks fly by my view. In silhouette to the setting sun.

I hear crickets chirping. Another party has started down the hill. Sounds like: lots of men sitting around a game on the television. A can opens. A car starts.

The church bells strikes: nine times.

The party next door has ended. The engines soften, it seems.

Another church chimes further in the distance. I can hear jazz music rise up from Church Street. Quietly at first, then louder. A saxophone player practicing scales.

I still haven't spoken. I'm alone. What I sound like: click, click, click on my keyboard. That's all.

I look over to the chair next to me. There's Au Lait, my kitty. She's sitting silently next to me. What's she think about all this noise, I wonder.

I speak. "Hi, Girl. You want to go inside? Let's go inside."