Saturday morning, and the neighborhood is very quiet after yesterday's surprise onslaught of jackhammers and dump trucks. Much noise was made, though what they were doing remains mysterious.

Our street is so narrow, and the houses are so close to the sidewalk, that street construction can feel like an army invasion. It's one more unsettling aspect of city life: there is no bubble of privacy. My yard may be a reenactment of a homestead, but it crouches square in the midst of planes, trains, and automobiles, not to mention barking dogs, shrieking children, leaf blowers, door slams, and the vent-fan fragrance of someone's invisible marijuana crop.

So these quiet mornings can feel like small apologies. For a few minutes, birds are the only ruckus . . . and now the freight train rumbles through . . . and now the city is stretching and blinking and the the clatter begins to swell . . .

Today I'll try to get to the stuff I didn't do when my front view was packed with asphalt guys and I didn't feel like trimming and weeding and mowing grass under their sardonic stare. Mostly, I think, we've got a flotsam-and-jetsam weekend ahead of us. I guess things are on hold with the incipient deck project because paying our taxes emptied our bank accounts. But Paul and Tom might drive downtown to practice parallel parking and see if the thrift stores are open. (Paul's taking his road test on Tuesday . . . finally.) And I might let myself sit still.