V O I C E S

Voices. The distant voice of the radio playing in the neighbouring house through the balcony door that's open because of the heat. It's only May, but the temperature is around thirty. The woman on the other side of the wall of our semidetached house scrapes the chair across the tiles. The birds are chirping insanely; it's past noon, yet they sound like it's an early, cool morning. The computer buzzes next to my head like an old refrigerator, but I can't open it and grab a pitcher of cold lemonade, or better yet, a beer. It's funny how the fresh noise of the birds makes the air feel cooler; the buzzing and the radio voices make it feel sultry and stifling. There seem to be voices of summer and voices of winter, spring freshness in this tone, autumn mellowness in that.