Mid-September was a cacophony of late-summer songs. A raucous symphony of crickets and frogs overlayed trees lush and full of leaves. Neighbors were out chatting and people walked in the warm evenings.

As autumn came, a gradual decrescendo accompanied cooling temperatures. People walked less, traffic calmed earlier, crickets chirped their last song in early November.

Leaves fell tree by tree in a continuous dovetailed choreography; each bare branch sounding its naked whipping in the wind.

Cold ushered in a subtle palette — the distant hum of highway, a single leaf dancing on the ground.

On a particularly quiet night, an owl call pierced the December dark.

My downstairs neighbor smokes less in the cold; I seldom hear the flicking of her lighter.

My next door neighbor, a woman in her early 80s, will appear at any time of night and begin raking, shoveling, clipping or sweeping. She has dementia and cares for the entire street.

The sound of rain is a dramatic change, loud with tones and tempos.

The late night gravel of a vixen calling her mate over laughter of holiday gatherings.

Falling snow brings my awareness closer in.

I am more familiar now with the space surrounding my home. I hear the shape of roads, the north and southbound direction of the train, familiar patterns of drumming rain.

Before winter came, I was wary of sitting outside during the cold months but closing each day bundled up in layers of clothing and blankets quickly became a calming ritual. Lulled by cold and breathing brisk air my mind is quiet. This cleared the way for many dreams.

February temperatures rose above freezing accompanied by an increase in traffic. People moving as our blood warms.

In mid-March, after months of quiet nights, the frogs sang. I was so excited to hear them - it was like seeing friends you haven’t seen in a long time.

A song came through.

Peepers continued to sing through early May then quieted, letting through the rustling of young leaves and squeaking creatures in the night.

A single cricket began to sing in early June. The songs of frogs and crickets are so familiar to me, woven into the soundtrack of my childhood. It has taken 40 years to notice that frogs sing first through spring before turning the stage over to crickets in June. I am so glad to know the nuance of these songs.

At some point during the winter, I knew this practice would be with me for a long time.