The new guy must not be an early riser, or he runs the route differently, leaving our house until later. So far, he has never arrived before six in the morning. I can no longer go out and fetch the paper and look at the headlines before bedtime. I miss that. I am attached to routine, and dislike disruptions to it. I lose track of time without those little reminders to which I am accustomed. the hour between three and four is now too quiet.
This night it has not been utterly silent, though, as the gentle rain has been continuous for hours, and the trickling of the gutters and the downspout has provided a pleasant music. I think the cats are enjoying it, too. They sit like sphinxes, but with paws tucked in, alternately dozing and gazing at whatever it is that cats see, or imagine they see, that we never do. The sight of them, their enduring patience and calm, is quite relaxing. I find myself wondering what the rain sounds like to their sensitive ears. What to me seems like gentle Mozart might to them more closely approximate thunderous Beethoven. Still, they show no excitement. Perhaps they find subtleties beyond the range of my hearing, and what I imagine would be merely loud, they find intricate and filled with meaning. How fascinating it would be to know what they experience.
But what I will now experience, I hope, is sleep. Things to do this afternoon, rain or no.