Trains echo in the valley on the west side of town. A large passenger plane streaks by to the nearby airport. Interstate 75 is humming, carrying freight and sleepy travelers making their way south to Louisville and north to Dayton. Rain hits the leaves, the rooftops, the concrete sidewalk and the road without prejudice. A door slams on a 1992 Ford Ranger and its 6 cylinder engine starts after a few misfires. Their is some yelling across the street from Indian international students making their way back from night classes at the college. Honking down on Mcmicken is separated into 4 short bursts. It is very still this night and passing cars make the sound the wind normally does. A gate opens and shuts quickly, while a neighbor boy opens his mailbox with a creak.
It is so quiet most nights that I can almost hear the buzzing from the florescent light bulbs in my room. I can almost hear the mercury causing the glass bubbles to rise in the barometer on my desk and the faint drone of pressure pressing against my eardrums.
It’s during a moment like this when I wish you would say something.