Normally cars and kids and passers-by, but in the early mornings over the bank holidays, the sounds in the London suburb where I live were the songs of birds and gentle splashes of spring raindrops.
I don't normally get up at dawn, but I was glad I did. I stepped into my garden to put food out for the wildlife and was so overwhelmed by the sounds that greeted me that I had to stop, perfectly still, just to listen.
A light mist masked the 1960s slab of a building beyond the fence at the end of my garden, which I suspect was also muffling any distant sounds of early cars setting off for a bank holiday day out.
I closed my eyes and let the dawn chorus wash over me - gentle coos, short trills, raucous caws, complex twittered refrains and in the background gentle drips of rain drops falling from the trees and house eves, sploshing onto the path and flowerbeds.
And, still listening and with my eyes still closed, I became aware of the smells of spring - fresh grass, moist earth and rain-drenched flowers. It was a time to be still, forget the troubles of life and be at peace with the moment.
My reverie was broken as Sin, the stray cat I feed, ran across the garden, head-butted me in the shins and meowed loudly at me to put down the bowl of food I was carrying.
If I was a Christian, I might find it ironic that Sin had disrupted peace in the garden. However, I'm a pagan and realise that all creatures have their own priorities and peace rarely lasts for long.