Wednesday, 08 May 2002 | Listening

A car drives by my open window blaring "Wind Beneath My Wings." It rounds the corner—my house is on the corner—fades in, fades out. A YMCA bus squeaks to a halt and surges as it heaves over the intersection. A car is stalling in the parking lot, turning over and over. Earlier I heard what I thought to be two men yelling, but it was just one man yelling, while beating himself with a stick. I'm not lying about that. The crickets are filling the background, buzzing like a florescent light, making erratic pauses like one that is dying. A train is clacking by, singing in a muffled G. A faraway, throaty dog, barking at noise. Flip flops down the sidewalk. A gentle (polite) tapping of a horn. Engines, brakes, jingling keys, and slamming doors, all of it independently overlapping, forming an unrehearsed concert. I can't count to five.