The Back Porch (#22)

Once again, the Back Porch exercises are inspired by www.ndwilson.com :)
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The cold cement presses into me as I sit cross legged on the cement slab that makes up our back porch. The breeze is cool, and I can feel goosebumps prickling up and down my arms. Something is rustling in the dry leaves - two somethings. It is a short, almost rythmic sound, as if birds were hopping through fallen leaves and brown undergrowth, the sounds distinct from each other and in slightly different directions.
  A plane rumbles far overhead. Closer, I can hear some large rumbling truck - no, it is the train! I can hear it clacking as it surges down the tracks. The rumbling is more than a noise, it is a feeling. The entire porch shakes underneath me, vibrating with the strength of the sound, and the weight of the train,
  It must have been a short train - it is fading into the distance now.
  The breeze chills me the longer I sit here. One blast, then two from the train, and now it is gone.  I stretch my legs out from underneath me, extending my feet forwards. I can feel warmth - the sun is touching a small part of the porch.
  My left hand brushes against the surface of the porch. It is rough, but not as rough as I might have expected. It is covered in a myriad tiny bumps, and coated with dirt and soft debris.  There is a pleasantness in its feel; something intriguing about the texture.  From where I sit, I can reach out my right arm and wrap a hand around one of the iron railings. It is rough as well, but with brittle paint and rust.  It too has a slight feeling of grime. The price payed by a life spent outdoors.
  The rustling in the leaves has not stopped. Something is hunting for its dinner. It's amazing how easily I can tell where the small creature is, what size of leaves or twigs it has brushed up against, even though I cannot see.