Since my hometown is mostly ranches I couldn't really think of a "single block" so I just went with what I would see exiting my house. Hopefully this still fits the prompt. I tried basing it on an actual event as best I could. Anyway.

 

Countryside

Silence. I jolt awake expecting the usual choir of croaking, chirps, and hooting of the countryside but instead there’s… nothing. It holds for what seems like forever. Am I dreaming? Suddenly, as if everything had been holding its breath, the loud whirring of a machine rings out. Rustling. Movement. Boots crushing dead grass. Voices join the machine’s cacophony. My heart races. The harvest. I’ve lived here for three years now but the start of the grape harvest is still jarring.

My gaze drifts over to my alarm clock, 5 a.m. Early. I close my eyes hoping to drown out the noise but just end up thrashing around. Sluggishly, I pull on my shoes and head outside. Lines of grape vine trellises roll up and down the hills as far as the eye can see. A sea of fog clings to each hill as the heads of pickers bob in and out of it where the hulking grape harvesters can’t maneuver. My tired eyes trail the rows until I spot a familiar face in the distance, my father. Beside him, a silent harvester. Before I can slink back into the house, he spots me. His hands wave in the air as he motions for me to come over.

Exhausted, I grab some gloves and a sweater as I make my way up the hills. After trudging along the paths I finally arrive and my father goes to tousle my hair. I quickly lean back to avoid his grease-covered gloves. “You won’t get me with that again y’know.” I mutter in Spanish as I grab a nearby toolbox. “I know,” he says in English with a wide grin. We turn our attention to the sleeping machine to pull it out of its stupor.

Forty minutes pass with little to no progress as the sun peeks over the horizon. We step back. The harvester’s innards seem in order. It has fuel. A new battery. What could we be missing? I poke and prod at the machine with my father for a few more minutes before the realization kicks me into action. I examine the fuel cap, snatch a small stick from the ground, and jab it into a clogged vent. A whoosh of air follows as I pull it back out. I turn the ignition key and the machine shudders to life with a roar. Its bright eyes pierce through the fog and illuminate my father’s dumbfounded face. “Vacuum lock,” I say with a wide grin.

He manages to tousle my hair before climbing in and motioning for me to follow. With grease in my hair, I take a moment to consider going back to bed. Dozens of voices, rustling baskets, and the groaning of the harvester in front of me help me realize that there’s no point. I slap my grease-covered glove on the back of my father’s head as I climb in with him. For the time being, this will be the sound of the countryside, of home.