January 25, 2022

Most mornings begin with the sound of birds chirping. Over the last few days, the sound of a saw cutting wood in the distance has joined them. It’s a blend that matches the city’s frequency: small and subtle sights and sounds of nature amidst more noticeable echoes of human beings: creating, building, working. Today, each time the refrigerator stops humming, I hear the sound of a hammer hitting against a plank of wood somewhere across the way, one or two streets over. The sound of the birds chirping quiets for a while, but with the winter sunlight falling in through the window and warming the space in here, clarity floods the apartment; a resolved and distinct knowing: the birds will land on the fire escape again in the morning, chirping and singing with and amongst the buzzsaw, the hammer, and whatever else may come.