The power is out. It’s the middle of the night. Phone battery is dead.
I’m lying in bed awake, listening to the sounds progressively from nearest to farthest. I’m in a nested Russian doll of sounds. A chirping cricket embedded in a more constant whine of cricket. I assume they like the overgrown tomato, watermelon and weeds. Then the freeway, which sounds like a seashell. Pay attention to singular sounds and you can pick out a muffler, a truck horn, a throttle. Then the river, with its foghorn. What time is it? Where are the birds? Brutus looks at me and says, “I’m cat. You’re monkey. That’s as far as we go.”
The street is dark. Lone men appear on Vernor, on a bike, on foot. Who knows who is in the car. Duly’s clock says it’s 2:30. Dammit. I order food.
Then the radio declares it to be 5:00. Wait. What?
There’s another clock and it agrees. Five. Hooray!