At 9:30 AM on a Tuesday, it was unusually quiet in the East Village of Manhattan. Perhaps it was the briskness of the fall morning or the off-hour that I decided to wander, but the tone of the village was as silent as I'd ever heard it, occasionally interrupted by the keynote of a siren buzzing down 1st Avenue and the sips I took from my coffee cup. There was a slight breeze as I walked down the shaded streets of the neighborhood. As the wind picked up, leaves danced on the sidewalks and streets with a distinct rustling sound, one that I attribute solely to the overgrown arboreal foliage of 9th between 1st and A.
I was called to attention by the sound signals of bicyclists speeding by, cutting the breezy silence with an alarming rush of air. The voices of children chimed and echoed down the streets, accompanied by pattering footsteps and an occasional whistle. Shortly thereafter, I heard basketballs bouncing and shrieks of joy -- the all-boys school on St. Marks must be on recess.
As I walked into Tompkins Square Park, the sounds of the children at play grew louder. The bouncing basketballs became separate and distant from the whipping jump ropes and creaking swing sets. The conversations of the children transformed from the solid mass of sound I'd heard from the previous block into individual conversations. Though the 9:30 AM silence was replaced by the symphony of the park, the ever-present rustling of leaves softly whispered in the background.
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