Sounds take on a different texture. They seem richer and more varied. The wail of a police siren was deafening when it cut across a conversation; now it interrupts my thoughts pleasantly, as a logical punctuation to my train of thought. I listen to the siren pass, then carefully step back into my thoughts. The bark of a dog, the rustle of the trees, the squick of my wet trainers on the pavement: all these things are the soundtrack to the world, which human conversation does nothing but drown out. Words do not add anything useful.on losing my voice for a fortnight
I go outside and see the culprit: this hairball cluster of what used to be a robin, one wing torqued stiff like a bent toilet brush, its tiny bird feet gone or sucked so far into its gut as to be invisible. I think about picking it up and wrapping it in newsprint and burying it back where we keep the garbage and recycle cans but I don’t do any of that. Instead I go inside and pour more coffee and then the next bird crashes into the window, only I’m watching clear-eyed as this one kisses it hard. That’s the problem with having windows that are too clean: it’s as if nothing’s there, no barrier or separation, while in the end it’s the very thing which does you in.picture window
It’s been heavier,' she said.
'In winter. Once.'
'Not this heavy,' I said. Out in the street the drains had filled and were vomiting filthy water up and over the gutters. The front yard was nothing but mud and leaves.
'Last time it was this bad it flooded the river,' she said. 'I saw a tram floating in the street.'
'I wasn’t there,' I said.
Rain ran down the glass, leaving dirty black trails. It was growing heavier. It was one forty-three, and there was no sign of the sun.black rain