I wish you could hear my wind chimes,
the soundtrack of my writing life.
Beyond them, the high-decibel din
of yard crews in the neighborhood,
the rubber-rush of the occasional car
on smooth asphalt,
the barks and yaps of dogs of various sizes.
Two boys riding bikes,
calling to each other from either side of the street;
my son is one of them.
A front door closing, a rustle of leaves.
Look how they tremble on their branches.
Autumn comes late here, if at all.
The leaves turn yellow-green and hold on
against the pentatonic breeze that
threatens and soothes us, respectively.