Clicking of the burner on the stove.
Toby scratching his chin.
Ticking of the red clock behind the TV.
Steady grumble of an airplane, chop chop chop chop chop of a helicopter.
Toby eating: smack, smack, smack, smack.
Hush of water through the pipes going into the washing machine in the laundry room as S comes out to check on his wash. Hushed metal and wood sound of door closing.
Muted, metallic sound of my keys hitting the carpet on the hallway steps as I drop them and prepare to put my running shoes on.
I go for a run. A thirty-something woman walking a black poodle suddenly bursts out yeah! yeah! yeah! as I pass. I see her adjust a gadget hooked to her ear. Bluetooth.
Thud, thud, thud, thud of a heavyset, middle-aged man wearing a sweaty t-shirt that says Texas State.
Spirited exchange of robins in the vicinity of Galer Street and 8th Avenue West.
Dog barking in Bhy Kracke park.
Washing machine in its spin cycle sounds like a helicopter landing in the building hallway. Big rattle and rumble. Fury and force. As if it were about to burst apart like a self-destructing Jean Tinguely sculpture.
K running the power wash, hosing the parking lot and sidewalk, the hiss and splash of water accompanied by the rapid-fire, angry murmur of the pressurizer.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump of rock ‘n roll drums coming from the CD player in the upstairs apartment.
My pen and glass case hitting the solid wood surface of the coffee table as I undress for bed.
Cat toy in the shape of a fish that makes a gurgly-burbly sound, like water bubbling in a cartoon aquarium.
Goofy, evacuative sounds of the plastic barbecue sauce bottle as Roberta squeezes out sauce for our beans and muffin cowboy dinner.
My heel burbles. I feel a lump under my foot. I am standing on Toby’s toy.
The owner of the house next door, a solidly built, muscular man in his early to mid-60s with white, short-cropped hair and the look of a seasoned warrior, runs some sort of power tool that makes an extremely abrasive sound, an electrical whir followed by a spinning blade grinding stone, or metal.
Sound of a small paring knife slicing through an orange, muted thunk, thunk, thunk as each piece drops to the wooden bread board.
Out running, I hear busy little scratchy sounds and see a dozen or so squirrels flow down the trunk of a tree. It looks like a squirrel waterfall.
Warm, mellow June evening: the distant hush of a jet fades into the sky.