What I can hear right now:
It is 8.35 on a Wednesday night. I am visiting mom, and she is in the living room watching someone decide to purchase one expensive home over another. I sit in the kitchen where the refrigerator just announced the end of its cycle with a click and a thump.
The clock that has been the background rhythm keeper in the soundtrack of my life tick tocks with resonance and familiarity in the hallway. Nearer to me in a syncopated beat is the kitchen clock. The two together sound like: tick thuck tock thuck tick thuck tock thuck. Through the open windows and stretching out to the distance are crickets scratching their chirruping melody on hind legs. A little further away and perched on a roof corner somewhere is a pair of mourning doves trading their tender woo-hoo hoo's.
I can hear the indistinct sound of a man's voice but I cannot distinguish words or hear who he is talking to. His voice and steady and unchanging so he isn't sharing exciting news. The fact I cannot tell what he is saying makes him feel like company without the demands for attention.
Somewhere over there a dog barks but it is a muffled sound, so I picture him on a leash behind some trees in a backyard, far away from this house. Even further, in the most distant layer of sound is the shushing roll of far-off tires and cars that never draw closer. I wonder about the people in those cars - where they're going and what they're thinking about.
Every now and then comes the gentle brush of wind through the tall grass. I look out of the windows and see how still the trees are - the leaves are not dancing tonight.
Even on a summer's evening, life slows down and gradually withdraws from the activity of the day. It is replete. It is done.