Our Street

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It is so quiet here. No busy street. No children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, running their tricycles up and down in total ignorance of pedestrians. No knocking on the window: “Hi! Hi there!” Dustmen bang the garbage cans on the back of their truck. A dog is barking fervently.
The neighbour across the street is watering his first floor window boxes with a hose, the water splashing every which way. Further down a popular song is blaring from the radio of construction workers who are repairing a balcony. The girls from next door ring the bell: “Can we come and say hello to the pussycats? Please, can we? Can we?” They dash through the house, scaring the cats into the cellar.
At night a lonely man whistles through the darkened street. The voices of three boys echo up from their swirling bicycles. A car door slams shut, then a front door. At the end of the street the main road is buzzing monotonously.
All that I cannot hear. Just the singing birds, the rustling of the wind in the trees.