Sounds

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Every morning I head out to the bird bath to top it off with a kettle full of water, and a bird will sing out from one particular juniper to the south. It’s the same song every time, a clear lilting call streaming out over the landscape. I wonder if this bird is the town crier, “Hear ye, hear ye, drink and bathe!” For me, the song is as much a part of my coming back to life in the morning as that first sip of hot tea.

In northern New Mexico, before getting into high alpine country we have great stands of ponderosa pine. These trees, tall straight boles are crowned with branches bearing long shiny needles. Water being scarce, the forest floor is open and the trees grow far enough apart so sunlight shines through. Hiking in one of these stands on a windy day there is the sound of air wrapping itself around all those needles as through a sieve. It is different than the sound through piñon, spruce or fir. I stand and close my eyes and wonder what spirits are this wind, this sound.

Sitting in the bleachers at a race track with motorcycles flying past, again, I have my eyes closed. To be a spectator, must one watch? So I don’t know what I am, but I do know the sounds of some motorcycles, just the sounds, are a thrill to hear. Tingles go up and down my spine. Anything with a Ducati nameplate will do this for me. I once owned a Ducati. Oh yeah, the sounds that motorcycle made.

I live alone out in the boonies and it is quiet. Sometimes it is more quiet than what’s good for me. I was at R.’s house loitering in the living room while she was going around getting her boots and pack together. We were going for a hike. There was great comfort listening to the sounds she made in the house.

Gordon Bunker