The wind coming from the west rakes the few leaves on the ground toward our rickety-sunbeat fence. Their rustle comes in waves and amplifies the creaking of bent nails, old wood and rusty hinges. The posts and beams of the homes 1950s design are starting to shed the heat they collected from a hot California October day and they moan occasionally with a start. There are no street lights so the night is engulfing our lot in all out darkness and pupils struggle to dilate enough to make sense of usually familiar surroundings. There is sound. The low hum of the refrigerator whose coil occasional twangs when the cooling cycle ends. Coos and sighs from the bedrooms. The leaves, the twigs and the branches cause the loudest cacophony and they are conspiring with one another. The home is reveling in its welcome of the shifting winds for those who are willing to listen to her.