Sounds

I don't know what time it was. Early. Our baby rooster had yet to start crowing from the adjacent bedroom, and while Sam is learning to stretch his night from five a.m. to six, my biological clock is currently stuck at a quarter to six in anticipation of his quiescent cooing. The air conditioner kicked on or off. Dawn painted the walls a charmed hyacinth when the thwap of morning papers hitting front stoops travelled up and then down our street.

There is something eminently peaceful in that sound, despite the fact the headlines are rarely good and, with the advent of the internet, I imagine more people use the paper to line their bird cages than catch up on current events. There is something peaceful in that sound, despite that fact that I've seen the guy that delivers papers on our street. He's a dreadlocked Rastafarian in an El Camino like Gunpowder, the horse from 'Sleepy Hollow', all broke-down looking but with the fire of a filly lurking within, with fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror and Hulk-green neon under the chassis.

I have never professed to live every day to the fullest. Quite the opposite, in fact, as I am an unequivocal fan of wasting the occasional day away. But, to me, the sound signifies a new day with new possibilities and opportunities. Then Sam squeaks, and it's time for his five to eight mile tour of Abacoa, smiling at dog-walkers and morning roller-bladers.