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| Photo Credit: Mary Johnson Varieties of Asters |
The wind was sweeping across the deck, swirling the seeds from the conifer trees into circles at first and then into a straight line.
The wind whistled through the trees, long and loud, a crescendo, then a diminuendo.
Leo came to sit with me on the porch and we discussed what kind of musical notation would capture the sound we were hearing.
I thought it would be brushes on a drum.
Leo reminded me that some orchestras use a wind machine.
He went on to tell me about white, pink and brown noise, but we got interrupted half-way through pink noise.
Different iterations of teens and pre-teens came out of the house to stand at the edge of the balcony and feel the wind that was billowing out their t-shirts.
Naomi raised her arms as though she was going to fly.
I asked Betty, who was sitting beside me, how she would make the sound that the wind was making.
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| Photo Credit: Mary Johnson Varieties of Asters |
That really made me laugh for she got it right, a dab done in context.
This was the kind of wind that upends deck chairs and breaks dead limbs off of trees, throwing them into the air and carrying them far from where they originated.
I thought of the lawn, and how many sticks there will be on it to tomorrow.
I know that this is a thought only I would have, picking up the aftermath of a storm.
Most of the dead branches will be scattered around the base of the clump birch, which is slowly dying, its life span just over for no other reason than long life.
The broken sticks have to be gathered and taken to the burn pile, a job only I enjoy doing.
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| Photo Credit: Mary Johnson Varieties of Asters |
I see lightning to the east.
A hummingbird is flying into the strong wind and then stopping at the bird feeder.
It flies away and then it darts back.
The bird stays there for so long that Leo goes in the house and brings Mary out.
The bird is still there drinking at the feeder or flitting in and then out, when Mary gets there.
Mary calls out, “Go home, little bird. This is not the time to be out looking for food.”
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| Photo Credit: Mary Johnson Varieties of Asters |
Mary goes back in the house to continue stirring the pasta sauce.
Leo and I stay outside, in wonder of that fact that this humming bird has stayed in one spot for such a long period of time.
The teens and the pre-teens have come out in different groups to enjoy the sound of the wind.
Or maybe it is the touch of the wind on their skin that keeps them on the porch.
Duncan’s hair doesn’t move.
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| Photo Credit: Mary Johnson Varieties of Asters |
I watch Betty’s long ringlets and they remind me of a slinky, expanding and then contracting.
Naomi and Diego have stayed outside the longest.
The sound of the wind is so loud they don’t hear the train coming until it is right beneath them.
Maybe the wind is just white noise, muffling the sound of the train. I asked them if they know how many trains pass by each day.
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| Photo Credit: Mary Johnson Varieties of Asters |
The right number is 18 to 24. They ask if the trains even run at night.
That is my clue that the teens are sleeping right through the trains, and probably don’t even hear them during the day, though the trains are so loud that we have to stop conversation when one passes by.
What each of us are attending to is never the same.
Arta
Rebecca and I have been sleeping in what used to be referred to as "the noisy cabin." It is no longer noisy from children. The most noise is now made from a nest of newly-hatched birds up in the peak of the eastern gable.
ReplyDeleteThis room we know well from our childhood still gives us the feeling that the trains at night are about to run right through the room.
ReplyDelete