Chessie looks unmoved by the rumblings outside. Perhaps if the storm moves closer she will don the usual "I hope this won't poke me in the eye" demeanor she displays whenever anyone so much as stretches a rubber band or picks up a letter opener.
But it sounds as if I'm out of luck. God has finished rolling his garbage can out to the street, returned up his heavenly driveway, and shut the gate. I hear only rain, and keyboard.
And computer hum. And rain gutter—either that or there's a bored kid with a bunch of bubble wrap in the back yard. And if so, he's probably the one banging chimes. But I think that's the wind, which, for an invisible force of nature, sucks at stealth.
I hear a small plane chancing the weather overhead (naturally), perhaps challenging it. Neighborhood dogs (really the only type of dog we have around here) are amicably discussing their philosophical ponderings one howl at a time, but far enough away that only unhappy people would dare to mind. Chessie's breaths are making a squeaking noise, and so are mine, which is acceptable when you're breathing through your nose. So pretty much it's loud as heck. All it took for me to notice was a little thunder.
They say that, on a day like this, if you listen very carefully past the rainfall and wind-tossed pine needles and snoring dogs, you will hear the soft call of a good book whispering your name. Actually, no one says that, but I'm going to go read, which is a lot of verbs for such an activity.
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