A hundred stomping steps cascade in a concoction of incoherent symphonies, thundering off concrete walls, slamming doors beating like metal drums.

The rising sibilant shrill of several hundred voices echo like a background encore of squawking startled cockatoos.

A stampede of bodies, a frivolous push, a stumble on squeaky shoes, and a meeting of searing cold steel, the final beat of alloy drums, then nothing.

A girl emerges from polished doors into baby blue skies dotted overhead by silver clouds, the distance cadence of cries muffled by space and wind.

She follows a gray slab road toward an ending plenary of cars, the waning summer heat dispersed by the incoming northbound wind.

The slap of rubber against asphalt, as engines cough to life and stumble down narrow paths. The girl rushes around the collection of cars, her backpack falling from her shoulder to her hand as she reaches out.

The sun’s reflection against black steel, a rush of heat, the cluck of a heavy metal slamming shut. Keys jingle together like Christmas bells, and the machine breathes to life.

Her car follows the mechanical herd as they empty the concrete lot, each car slowing inching toward the exit.

Further along, the vehicle turns left onto a suburban road, with identical houses lining the asphalt road occasionally highlighted by light shining through the thick canopy of trees.

The drum of wheels against the is joined by several more, as the narrow road widens into a larger stream. The beatbox of honks and horns collects together as the girl’s car races into another lot.

The beep of sliding doors and the pungent smell of lettuce and beef pollute the air. The girl enters and heads for the aisle sprouting a variety of vegetables.

It’s not an everyday thing—coming here for the food—but at stake is the girls’ dinner routine. She grabs a cornucopia of items—beef, tomatoes, potatoes, and eggs.

The cashier rings, and then it’s back to the sweltering heat of the car, although the sky has now dimmed to a waning orange.

The drive back is uneventful—full of mindless radio chatter with the occasional tune of music—although a particularly hard right-around turn causes the bag of groceries in the back to topple.

The girl scolds herself, didn’t she just remind herself to go slower this morning?

Finally, her car pulls into a familiar driveway, gravel rattling under-wheel as the rumble of door opening breaks the silence.

The vehicle’s engine dies under the opaline sky. There’s a rush of steps, a jingling of keys, and the slamming of a door.

It is an everyday routine, a repeating cycle, from the cadence of thousands of feet to the fervent silence of home.