sounds

listening

To this day, I love the soft, hoof to dirt rhythm, of a gallop. Clop clop clop clop, horse and rider, dust flying, in an old western. Clop clop clop clop. It’s sound and picture and smell and dust and dirt and powerful horse, all in a background sound that fills the brain.

When I was little, I played tap dance. With patent leather shoes banging and making as much noise as I could on a linoleum floor. It was silly and noisy, clicking and knocking the heck out of those shoes and that cheap floor. I love. I love that sound too.

But tonight it’s a cold dark winter night, it’s late, and I’m half asleep. Tick tick tick. The slick, scraping sound of icy sleet hitting windows, brushing glass. Tick tick tick. I’m inside, and feeling protected. Safe, I suppose. Yet the sound calls, barely calls, beckoning me from a desperate, a desperately soft floating dreamy winter numbness. Tick tick tick, calling me out from some sad sense of empty waiting. Tick tick tick. Out there in the dark. Tapping at the window. Tapping at the subconscious. It taps me on the shoulder. “Wake up. Listen, girl, listen. Yeah, girl, you. You hear that? Wake up, girl.” I get up and look, I guess hoping to see something in the darkness besides sleet hitting the glass. Out there where you know there’s nothing but dark and cold. What did I hope to see? I think something to make me look, to rouse, to look up and smile. Yeah, something to shake the numbness, to make me look up, and about, and smile.

music, nature, plants, sounds

evening

It looks like these trees and this brush are endless. Sometimes I feel that way too. But they’re not.

I was hunched over, trying to get a picture of the flowers and the green and a bit of the sunlight still coming through. It was getting close to eight, and there was a towhee doing what towhees always do at sundown. It was ‘drink your tea’ time. They sing those notes over and over, part of the evening ritual.

But this time there was music too. Human type music. Past all the green, up a hill, there was a house and the glow of flames in a fire pit, and somebody was out back. None of my business, but how could I not notice? He was playing folksy music, and it sounded so good I wanted to yell, “Hey, what’s that you’re playing?” Of course I didn’t. I thought it was somebody sitting by the firepit playing a guitar or banjo, and singing one of those folk songs that feel like springtime, and good times, and flowers in a field. Eventually I realized the music was too good, it must have been a recording.

I didn’t want to move on, but I started walking slowly along the path, around a bend, and the music playing behind me faded in the distance, past the trees.

Photographed May 29, 2020

bamboo, nature, percussion, sounds

clack, clack-le

It’s haunting.
You barely hear it, a rattle, or a whistle.
Some sort of earthy percussion.
Random, humble, rhythm-less repetitions.

clack, clack, clack, clack-le
clack-le, clack, clack, clack-le
clack, clack-le, clack, clack-le
clack-le, clack-le, clack-le
Bamboo stalks look so calm and graceful,
but when they bend and bounce in the breeze, they produce a strange sound.
The tones come from the top of the plant, almost from the wind itself,
and to me feel unexpected and jarring.
life, nature, photography, water

the sounds

photographed 11/3/19

I stop and look around,
and think how I can convey the sounds I’m hearing.
Well, I can’t. But I can try telling you.

There are always bird sounds.
Usually, the sweet tweeting bird sounds you’re probably imagining right now.
Sometimes, though, blue jays or crows battle each other, or warn off intruders
with loud kaw-kaw-kawing.

The other sound is running water.
Not rushing water, but a trickle.
The gentle, trickling sound of a barely moving stream.

_________________________
etikser

life, personal writing, photo, photography, poem, prose, summer, writing

morning coffee on the back porch

your bothered sigh 
another day

a squeak 
a bang

sliding doors

nearby voices fading far
muffled jumble
meaningless words

engines and brakes 
thumps and car doors
invisible airplane overhead purr

a singular 
dispirited 
gnarling bark 

hums
buzz
someone’s busy outdoor chores

then

quiet
nothing
but wind and birds and bugs silence

til

a swishing  swirl
swiftly spinning  
bicycle wheels

one more sip, your final gulp
sun up sounds
summer’s day waking up