Mists without the fruitfulness

I think it was sunny for about an hour today, between sunrise and the mist across the water reaching our shore. I've just added an extra to remind me of that wide blue morning sky before that great grey tide swamped it all. It was a good moment, however, that sunny 8am - I'd just slept all night without a single cough, and therefore without any memory of dreams of wakefulness, having suppressed the urge to cough with a single co-codamol. In these straitened times, when we can no longer buy even Codeine cough linctus over the counter, that makes me sound like a junkie, but I'm too aware of the effects on me of long-term use - I shall be doing without tonight, having not had the dire coughing fits more than once all day. Wish me luck ...

I had  a busy morning doing my own stuff, for a change - two washings, poaching pears, making a start to next year's photo-calendar (I suddenly realised there's a sale on, if I can get the order in tomorrow...), rescuing the washing I'd optimistically put on the line when I realised the mist had acquired that fine drizzle I associate with mountain-tops. By afternoon I was determined to get a decent walk, so after the customary weather check (did it look more promising downriver or among the hills?) we went to Benmore Gardens on the day before it closes (officially) for the winter. Despite the damp mist, it was actually beautiful, with glowing autumn colours in some parts (like round the pond, in my other extra) and stark silhouettes in others (the main picture from the Chilean hillside is an example). I collected some in-date eye drops from the pharmacy on my way home and felt quite bouncy as I walked up the hill from town. 

During online Compline, lovely as always, I found myself thinking about the nightmare of the world just now, after reading editorial and columns in Sunday's Observer about the American elections and the consequences for the rest of the world of a Trump victory - and then I saw on the news the catastrophic flooding in Spain and remembered that climate change is another non-existent threat in the Trumpiverse. And now I've just locked the front door, and as usual stood for a moment on the doorstep listening to the town. Dunoon is totally silent on this still night - not a car, not a voice, not a ship passing, no sound of rain on the path. It wasn't always like this - I think Covid changed a great deal. And I have a question which I'd love anyone reading this to answer:

When you stand on your doorstep at 11pm, what do you hear?