The screaming espresso maker at the café dominated by tables of early-risers.
The revving engine trying just enough to make it home one last time.
The goose-like pushing of someone late or busy or upset or just from around here.
The crying baby just audible enough if you closed your eyes, “It’s past my bedtime. Take me home.”
The sound of home.
Today, pairs chatting dully on benches, in corridors, walkways.
Today, restless silence, holding a breath for the impending dates and deadlines and doorbells.
Today, turning chair of dedication heading off for tomorrow.
Today sounds like a good day.
Mary's One Hundred 