I am cocooned in a symphony of sound.

Each melody, specific,

Each accent, amplifed.


In the distance, a train’s engine rumbles

as it clatters along the tracks,

a low, mournful horn song drifts on the

dense morning air.

Every bird song is distinct –

Twitters and squeaks

Chatters and winnows

Some percussive

Others rhythmic:

A dawn chorus.

The clouds push it down to my waiting ears,

rather than allowing it to escape upwards.


The farm is my chamber

for a musical festival

where I am surrounded,



I shiver and smile

and pull my jacket close around me

the mist falling across my face.

The cottonwood in the distance

a ghost,

black and skeletal.