I could hear finches, robins, song birds, and I swore even an owl.
There is a quartz wind chime slightly clinking from where I hung it up at the corner of the porch.
The chime sounds like fine bone china making odd, inconsistent and tiny toasts to something grand.
In the distance some dogs bark here and there and someone is cutting a lawn.
I rock back and forth and fall asleep.
It is a high spring day and not all of the orchestra has arrived yet.
There is no sound of the wind rustling oak leaves or the mad dash of tiny winged beasts among the azaleas. There is no sound of ice resettling in a sweating glass of water. There is no razor sharp hum of beetles and cicadas. No chance of heat breaking thunder or lightening in March.
In the distance from the other end of the dead end street the traffic of the world passes.
But form the rocking chair it only sounds like waves attacking a beach and in my dream on the porch I never have to leave home.