I'd have to say I'm fairly good at blocking the sound of my day out, but some days you're just open to the world, you know? The singing of the train tracks in the morning, the hum and rumble of traffic, the squeal and sigh of the train as it skids to a stop, protesting all the way.
The office is quiet, staccato barks and clicking keys, water poured and sipped and gulped. The murmur of new hires 'thankyouthankyouthankyou' and the shifting weight of the building as coworkers swish by, swiftly, quickly, rushing to business or busy-ness.
Walking home is squeaky shoes and the flap-flap of bags too heavy, legs and feet sore, slapping the sidewalk. Train bells and snippets of radio, bass too loud or too low, thrumming through your bones. That's the way the bus feels, too, as it labors over the potholes, whining and shaking, a lumbering beast working hard to be oblivious to the world around it.
Home is two paws thumping, two paws scratching, big excited gulps of air too fast around a chew toy. Its the jangling of keys and the jangling of the leash and the burst out the door to the nightly walk.
Once we hit Ninth Street the sounds of the city fall away and we're left with lonely cars and squeaky garages, quiet little plots, house and home, carefully tended and watered by hand. We descend again to the city, leaving the mountain stillness where it was- exposing ourselves to the buzzing neon lights and seven o' clock train horns.
I hear it every day but I tend not to listen. What else in the world am I missing?