The rain pounding the glass ceiling of the conservatory is a crescendoing snare drum, the drum roll growing more intense with each passing minute. And the water coursing down the metal gutters just behind me echo the sound of a hammer on a xylophone, sending wild notes echoing throughout the room.

The sound is unexpected. In a place like Longwood Gardens, I expect to write what I see. I don't know that I spend much time thinking about what I hear, too often attempting to tune out all the background noise in order to concentrate on some mundane daily task. I hear too much in my head - "Don't forget to pick up milk? We're almost out. How did I let it get so low, anyway?" - that I forget to listen to the world around me.

A cell phone rings some obnoxiously unnameable tune. And after three or four bars, a tall, dark-haired gentleman in an equally dark sweater answers. "Hello?...Oh, hello!" He walks on through the carefully cared for landscape, through the glass doors at the end of this room, and onto the next room, carrying his conversation with him.

In the stillness of this desert room, the distracted voice stands out. I'm relieved when the glass door heaves a sigh as he passes into the next room. I am thankful again for the lack of voices, content to listen to the fat plops of the rain as it sneaks through a pane overhead and puddles on the slate floor next to me.