squeaking

A month and a move. Changing suburb is like waking up. Like getting hurt, moving crab-like and sunning yourself in the heat of the day. Draw this, hear this taste this? The firemen are gardening today and the other morning fooling around on a segue. Planning is difficult when there is all this to look at and then the bustle down the road is bursting with vim. Markets beckon. Every day the firepeople test their gear at regular intervals, but moments become sonic details, a harried boxing object, the bounce-echo of basketball irregularly played, mostly male voices rising up together in a cry to their engines, water draining. They go out when the community calls. In the summer months, their community is needy and must be reassured as well as saved. Siren tests fold over sensor sounds and truck sirens. The trees squeak with the sirens today, the first thirty-eight degree day of summer. Winding windy.

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