July 22: Background Noise
Kristen Lindquist
Thunder rocked and rolled through the neighborhood last night for much longer than I had expected--a true summer thunderstorm, with the fireworks of frequent lightning flashes, as well. Even our old, semi-deaf cat, who has never been weather sensitive, seemed startled by some particularly loud thunderclaps. It sounded as if an ogre were up on Mount Battie bowling a few of those big glacial erratics over the talus slope. It went on so long that I almost grew used to the rumbling as I read into the evening.
Tonight we've got background noise of a different sort, as the guy who lives across the river mows his lawn past dark. I just finished mowing my own lawn about an hour ago, having been thwarted at the task yesterday by the rainstorm, so I don't hold it against him. I've never gotten a good look at exactly what kind of lawn is over there, but it must be big, because he mows often and for a long time, and on a riding mower. So the drone of a lawn mower is a near constant during the warmer months. Before dusk fell in earnest, the mower's whine was complemented by the sharp whistles of our neighborhood cardinal, who decided to end his day with some fanfare.
Even with the mower going, I can still hear the trickle and flow of the river on its meandering way into the harbor. That's a constant. As is the undercurrent of cricket song, that gentle thrum in the soft July air. And just now, the querulous honking of a lone goose heading upriver to join its family on the lake.
Last evening, thunder.
Tonight, crickets' hum outlasts
the lawnmower's drone.
Tonight we've got background noise of a different sort, as the guy who lives across the river mows his lawn past dark. I just finished mowing my own lawn about an hour ago, having been thwarted at the task yesterday by the rainstorm, so I don't hold it against him. I've never gotten a good look at exactly what kind of lawn is over there, but it must be big, because he mows often and for a long time, and on a riding mower. So the drone of a lawn mower is a near constant during the warmer months. Before dusk fell in earnest, the mower's whine was complemented by the sharp whistles of our neighborhood cardinal, who decided to end his day with some fanfare.
Even with the mower going, I can still hear the trickle and flow of the river on its meandering way into the harbor. That's a constant. As is the undercurrent of cricket song, that gentle thrum in the soft July air. And just now, the querulous honking of a lone goose heading upriver to join its family on the lake.
Last evening, thunder.
Tonight, crickets' hum outlasts
the lawnmower's drone.