Sights, sounds, smells.

There's a rhythm to the morning turning on of the computers: power button, monitor, power button, monitor, power button, monitor, all the way down the row in alphabetical order, making the L-shaped bend between computers E and F. Then the logging on. User name, tab, password. I move down the row at a brisk clip, not unappreciative of the aural differences in the clatter of keyboards under my fingers. Computer H belongs in a movie, as it has that perfect late-night-blogger, genius coder, Nora Ephron penpal sound that's somewhere between a click and a clack.

After that, I conducted a canon of Windows welcome sounds with the trio of circ-desk computers. #tinydeskconcert.

In the big, picture windows that flank the fireplace, I can watch the storms clouds roll in, unload their glorious bounty on our roof (more wonderful clatter) and roll on out. The great, grey mounds of cloud build and disperse three or four times over the course of my shift, accenting the bright summer foliage of the trees down our hill. I always marvel at how the colors of the world always look more brilliant with the gloom of a storm behind them.

I'm not the only one who dances with glee at the sight. Abby and May both love the summer storms too, maybe as much as I do.

Laminating is a joy beyond all other joys. The hot film fusing to the sparkling new dust-jackets of our recent book order smells like hot glue guns and happiness. The finished product is a yards-long sheet of plastic that has spilled over the counter and onto the floor, folding over on itself multiple times like a sheet of ribbon candy. For the next hour, the work room is filled with the sound of three sets of steel scissor blades slicing the plastic, cutting covers down to size. Three sets of vocal chords sound behind the industrious clamor, as chatty tongues often accompany busy fingers. Before I know it, every cover is ready for its book, and the last minute of my workday has been eaten away. Home now, back again tomorrow.

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