Mid-September was a cacophony of late-summer songs; a raucous symphony of crickets and frogs overlaying trees lush and full of leaves. Neighbors chat, taking phone calls on the porch, and walked in the warm evenings.

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

Hearing the gradation of season change via the trees. A full summer oak next door, ripe with hundreds of thousands of leaves, whisked and whirled in the wind. Towards the end of summer I noticed a change in sound as still-green-leaves began to dry out; the sounds of hydration. Leaves came flying down tree by tree in a continuous choreography; each bare branch sounding its naked whipping in the wind. A tree might take a day or a week to fully release the year’s growth; the sound of halfway unloaded branches. Leaves dragging across the ground blended into scraping rakes and a sheet, heavy with leaves, being dragged towards the woods. Some nights a leaf would blow off the screen where I was listening, scratching for a moment before falling away.

Animal-like, this listening, I feel more connected to my cat. She is so tuned in to the soundscape that every little click catches her attention. Sometimes I hear here purring on my lap under the blanket, other nights she comes running onto the balcony charged up by the wind.

At 48 degrees the crickets and peepers stopped singing and nobody is out walking. The train whistle blares through loud and clear.

Cold ushered in a subtle palette: the distant hum of highway, a single leaf dancing on the ground. Sounds of myself drawing inward; the blanket touching my ears, my heart beating.

Heat becomes sacred.

My awareness is drawn to singularity: my breath, one car, one drip, a single cricket, a police siren. Maisie scratching at the door to go in. She was spooked tonight.

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.

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

The late night gravel of a vixen calling her mate. Her scratchy cry carries over laughter of holiday gatherings.

The sounds of the shape of the week. I live near the center of town where people come to shop and eat. Saturday has the most hustle and bustle. Monday nights tend to be calm. This is reflected in the hum of the highway.

My next door neighbor will appear at any time of night and begin raking, shoveling, clipping, sweeping. She has dementia and cares for the entire street.

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, muffled conversations through windows. They seem angry.

Someone is repeatedly key-fob beeping their car.

40 no longer feels cold. It’s now comfortable to sit out when the temperature is above freezing.

Falling snow brings my awareness closer in.

Before winter came, I was wary of sitting outside during the cold months, averse to feeling cold. But closing each day bundled up in layers of clothing and blankets has become a calming ritual. Lulled by cold and brisk air my mind became quiet and cleared the way for vivid dreams.

February temperatures rose above freezing accompanied by an increase in traffic. People move 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 reuniting with friends.

One night a song came to me fully formed.

Peepers continued to sing through early May when they gave way to the rustling of young leaves and squeaking creatures in the night.

A single cricket sang 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.

For the first time, sitting with eyes closed, I tracked the direction of a thunderstorm as it passed overhead.

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

Any thought I have is louder than the sounds around me and will block them out.