It’s 4:45 on Thursday, on Wednesday and on Tuesday. The week is overlapping and I’m starting to lose track of what might be outside of the reach of my bathroom window. Sparrows and blue jays sing from Tuesday, the rain falls from Wednesday, but now, Thursday, I hear the squeaking axles of trucks, package trucks, shipping trucks, and a melody that remains constant even when the traffic moves on. Maybe a neighbor? The music really gets back here through the narrow driveway between the buildings. Maybe a celebration across the street?