Tuesday, October 02, 2012

In A Silent Way

Buffalo Shadows
               This morning I paid attention to the sound of sunrise. A song, really. It reminded me of the  Coltrane song, In A Silent Way. I have a Miles Davis version. (look up specific recording date, album, musicians etc…)
Instead of a single legato horn, dawn started with the longest of legato thrums. Earth quickening to the daytime meter.
               I don’t mean the 60 cycle hum that is ubiquitous wherever electricity flows. Fluorescent light shimmy sound, nor refrigerant compressors snap on, chugh off, snap on, chugh off, snap on, chugh off…
               Dawn starts with a sub frequency dynamo spins so slow and steady with earth brruum. With earth brrum.
               Long low notes slow pulse.
               Then wind like a synthesizer swells.
               This must be how angels sound. These voices, what else to call any noise but a voice? Maybe if I were more familiar with these voices… Voices of old things, sand piled in a dune, on a beach, pressed, stored, lifted and weathered into a cliff. Sand hopping, slipping, sifting, great clouds of it, ‘dust devils’, puffs when fat rain falls, sand slumping, sand mud muddy, quicksand. The wind/sand sound is just the barest beginning of today’s synth like swells.
               Now the brushes, not drum sticks, but, eucalyptus trees; the eucalyptus trees that line either side of the dirt road from last night to this morning. A long tunnel of tree sighs, creaks, moans and branches brushes. How like a river this tunnel of trees, this eucalyptus hallway, this wooden course. How like a river the wind in the trees is.
               Next geese pass low over the house with sound nothing like honks. More heraldic, announcing another day is here.
               “Harken, the new day dawns,” they sing in unison. “Your midnight fears are away with night.”
               “Awake the hell up and let’s jump with the morning. Jump the morning. Jump jump-jump. Alive with the morning, awake the hell up.”
               Are these really geese hollerin’? One dawn without garbage trucks and leaf blowers and I am asking myself.
               Are these really geese? A noisy, talkative tribe. Song sing sounding sacred and common. The Holy Vernacular I’ll call it. The regional colloquialism of bushes and bob-o-links.
               Go the crows.
        As goose feathered song fades the geese go and crows come the crackle of drum sticks, paradiddles. Strokes, flams, paradiddles and rolls. The sound now of starlings rushing first a river then trickle then a rush cascade a waterfall then a river an ocean. Truly no two snapshots the same. If I blink rapidly the starlings sudden stop, stutter step, to strobe effect.

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