Mid-September was cacophony of late summer songs. A raucous symphony of crickets and frogs overlayed trees lush and full of leaves. Neighbors were out chatting as 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 tree added the sound of its naked branches to 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 in December, an owl call pierced the dark.

My downstairs neighbor smoked less in the cold; I didn’t hear the flicking of her lighter as often.

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

The sound of rain is a dramatic change from dry nights, loud with varying tones, textures and tempos.

The late night gravel of a vixen calling her mate cuts through holiday hustle.

Falling snow, absorbing and dampening, brings my awareness closer in.

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

Before winter came, I remember feeling wary of sitting outside during the cold months. Ending each day bundled up in layers of clothing and blankets quickly became a calming ritual. My thoughts quieted, lulled by the cold. Breathing in brisk air cleared the way for many dreams.

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

Temperatures in February rose above freezing and each warm day was accompanied by an increase in traffic. People move more as our blood warms.

In mid-March, after months of quiet nights, the frogs sang. I felt so happy to hear them - it was like friends returning after a long trip. A fully formed song came to me during this time.

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, the soundtrack of my childhood. It has taken 40 years to hear that frogs first sing in early spring before turning over to the crickets. I am grateful to know the nuance of these songs.

More than anything else, it has become abundantly clear that the more I listen, the more I hear.