soundwalk

there are always birds chirping in the park, even more so now that it's spring. it's mostly sparrows, tweeting their cute little songs, but i can hear a crow on occasion, a distant, ominous caw, but i can't see it. i can never see it. it's slightly windy, and the leaves rustle soothingly. behind me, children chatter and laugh on the playground. if i listen closely, i can hear the squeaking of the ancient swing set's rusted chains.

dogs and their owners trod along the dirt path and pavement alike, soft crunching leaves and twigs on one side, the click of shoes and claws on the other. i know a dog is coming thanks to the telltale jingle-jangle of dog tags. a little yappy thing barks a sharp, high-pitched sound at a scurrying squirrel, which chitters and ruffles the grass in its escape. in the distance, a bigger dog bays, deep and low and energetic—probably tumbling excitedly around the dog run. bikers whiz by, wheels flicking, chains clicking, bells dinging brightly.

a kid practices her rollerblading, wheels cracking pleasantly against the pavement, hair whipping in the wind. a younger kid, maybe her brother, screeches his scooter to a halt and lets it clatter metallically to the ground. his little sneakers stumble clumsily before he gets back on the scooter and kicks off—at least one of his wheels is slightly squeaky. their babysitter calls out in a stern, projecting voice, warning the boy to stay close as another bike fwips by. sparrows chirp and splash and beat their wings in a small puddle, then flap frantically away as a dog pitter-patters by.