A garbage truck thunders past, doubling the thirty mile per hour speed limit. Then a slow car. And another. Then quiet except for the crinkle-strain-crinkle-strain of the palm paddles on the ceiling fan above my head. Type. Click, click, click. (Source: "Sound Escape", 40x41: Midlife Crisis Postponed) Excerpted from a soundscape poem originally called "Bucolic Study", but probably eventually ...