Wednesday, hushed

It is a rainy morning in Chicago. I drink coffee and listen to the cars shushing past my home. I can tell when the light at the corner changes; the sound shifts from a whisper to what sounds like titans pushing around great columns of water. The trucks make a deeper sound, somewhere between elephant and sled dog, translated into water.

Yesterday morning was the first Tuesday of the month, and at ten a.m. an air raid siren cut through the quiet as it always does on the first Tuesday. There are rhythms here, there is music for those who are listening.

I drink my coffee and listen. Soon I will put on music and brush against the day more actively. But for now, I will listen passively, and wonder if the sounds of wet streets can tell me anything about the cars and trucks themselves, the people within them, their destinations.