I hear the engine.  It revs up, idles, stalls, dies, starts again.  The guy who lives behind me is working on someone’s car.  The grinding whine of the mower as it passes my window, my grass is finally getting cut.  I smell grass and leaves intermingling.  A plane flies low, very low overhead.  In my mind’s eye, it brushes just above the branches of the trees in my yard. Motorcycles of every make and model idle with the light, burst away in chase of one another.  Old beater cars with bad mufflers sputter and spit.  I lay here trying to sleep wanting to be lulled by familiar sounds – the traffic, my childhood, listening to my father work on cars.   I can’t sleep with the symphony of mechanics going on but it is calming nonetheless.