Fragments From Floyd

The refrigerator hums from the kitchen, making ice, recovering from three days of silent thaw. Under the house, the water pressure pump thrums rhythmically as the first load of clothes churns and thunks from the washroom. And, although it has always been there during my day at my desk, before these three days of utter quiet, I never really noticed how much sound comes constantly from the computer. Will I always, from now on, hear it so near and shrill, or will I once again learn to unhear?

All day Friday, the wind of Ivan whistled under the doors; the sideways rain pelted against the windows while the metal roof ruffled like thunder just over my head. Above it all was the hiss of the creek--a constant churning surf wanting to climb up from its beach to the road, the house, to carry us to the ocean with it, flotsam on raucous muddy waves. The sky was dark. My room, alone, darker and disquiet.

Yesterday, a cold front came through behind the storm. This morning, we're seeing new low temperatures for the season. With our new ears, if it were not for the return of the hums, thrums, hisses and whirrs of life back to normal, I think we would hear the frost.