The Still City

Photo courtesy Flickr

This has been the quietest season I can remember in thirty-eight years. Nearly every week-end day is as still as the morning of 9/11, when air traffic was grounded for hours.

Whatever the reasons, it is a welcome change. I can hear voices instead of engines. The birds and dogs run their shows, people relate lyrically, the petty business of the neighborhood makes itself known, and best of all, the train whistle calls out the nature of the night.