I sit here in my tiny studio with the garage door ajar and the sound of wind, traffic and a distant lawnmower. On the windowsill to my left, the resident spiders have made a graveyard of sucked-dry insects I'll eventually wipe away.

Further than that, the view has triangle pieces of blue sky fringed with trees that sway. Our small deck's white lattice is covered in a grapevine that sends forth longing hopeful shoots in every direction. It is green against the beige northern wall of our house.

I went for a walk in the sunshine and met only a few other people: park workers, a woman outfitted with accessories (water bottle, phone, hat, glasses, poop bag dispenser) and a dog all fastened in various ways to her body, a jogger, a couple on a bench. Boys were at the riverside fishing while listening to music. The wind makes noise.

Back here at my desk, the freezer hums beside me. It is full of loaves of bread, pizza pops, popsicles and chicken stock. My thoughts are so noisy, I haven't found a clear path to one story. My hands pause between sentences; "What's the story? What's the story?" The story is this: there is a lot of noise.