That old saw

I stop sawing a while; let the perspiration do its work. The English summer is here and its sounds are familiar.

Traffic, always some somewhere, but not obtrusive and the thing that makes me listen is not any one noise, but the soft mixture of them all. In no particular order:

• Small dog yapping, in play I feel.
• Large dog woofing, in greeting I like to think.
• Seagulls.
• Distant DIY.
• A large white butterfly comes close enough to reveal the sound of its wings, a fast beating flutter.
• A bird (I didn't look up) has a softer, slower sound to its flight, only beating twice when in audible range.
• A wasp rasps fibres from an old wooden crate for the new extension.
• Happy children noises.
• The sun creaks the garage roof.
• My stomach calls out for another drink; coffee is made.

Too hot now for the lawnmowers' mating calls; too calm for sirens wail. No car alarms since the traditional one I heard as the Lymington to Yarmouth ferry passed my mooring yesterday afternoon. Summer.