The night dew roof-runoff keeps time, dripping its drops on an old wooden box. A near-distant asphalt artery imposes a backdrop of white noise. The ubiquitous hidden crickets, each with its own metronome, make sounds a hundred times their size in the dark damp night. Croaking toads belch two syllable counterpoint. Dogs, at varying distances from one another, bark an uncouth acapella rounder. The tire-whine of an eighteen wheeled night-run provides a demonstration of the doppler effect, reverberating in the low valleys. An owl, perched in the silhouette of a nearby whispering pine, questions the very identity of this mysterious night. The long, low moan of a distant aircraft swells and dies in the black starry sky, indifferent of its coming or going. The lack of light amplifies these wondrous night noises. A soft breeze brushes my cheek and stirs a windchime into a tinkling, bell-like phrase. A mockingbird performs its favorite impressions, taking a long solo, occasionally changing its stage location. The almost obnoxious sound of automotive engines propelling tired passengers to unknown destinations tatters the edges of this quiet concerto. This night is a melody of rhythm. Each sound composing its own story.
Way Out West © 1993 Martin Scherer. E-mail: mscherer@tesserak.net