The neighborhood children are noisy.
Petulant toddlers are screaming for more attention than their already beleaguered mothers can offer them. It is the weekend: Daddy is pressed into service, obligated to help in the burden, the joy, the expense of child rearing. I was there but am here presently as a father of grown children, flung far to the four points of the compass. My nest is empty, but that is perfectly all right.
I revel in the clamor that descends upon me when I step out my front door [one can have too much solitude and tranquility], drink it in to surfeit, then reenter my peaceful domicile and close the door.
I do have choices.
