I am hearing things.

I should clarify.

I hear things all the time from my apartment in Lowell.



Trucks slowing down and speeding up.

More sirens.

Car alarms.

People yelling.

Dogs barking.

Gulls crying.

A quick chirp of a siren and then another. I swear the police folk just like creating new rhythms with them as if they were musicians on the side. Maybe they are?

The whistle of a trolley heading to and from the Swamp Locks Gatehouse.

This afternoon, I am hearing things aside from the usual unfortunate musical choices of the individuals who pass below my third floor apartment.

I have been sitting on my couch with a breeze from Dutton Street whispering through the screens on my three windows. I am reading Natalie Goldberg’s The writing life: Freeing the writer within. Well, reading is a stretch. I am flipping pages looking for inspiring, golden nuggets of truths that speak to me and diligently taking notes.

Amidst the revving engines and R & B, I suddenly hearing a chorus of voices singing a familiar song.

This land is your land.

This land is my land.

I sit up, alert, ears cocked.

Am I really beginning to lose it? I shake it off and go back to taking notes.

No sooner do I pretend to not hear it than the voices rise again in song.

I stand up, walk over to the window, push it open carefully, and look out over the sea of cars.

Just engines and the sound of rolling traffic.

I must be crazy after all.

I am hearing things.

But, I suppose if I have to start hearing voices, there could be worse things to have to listen to.

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