Morning Sounds

I enjoy lying snuggled under the covers, easing into the sounds of the morning. Of course, work schedule dictates whether or not I can indulge myself, but if I can, I do. The sound of the laughing ducks out back on the pond make me smile; the twitter of the chickadee, the strident drilling of the red-headed woodpecker. Sometimes on a particularly windy day, I can hear the roar of wind and waves on the bay.

Living where I do is a radical noise change from Southern California, where I would hear police sirens and helicopters overhead almost nightly, with their eerie spotlights tracking some person of interest. Traffic noise was a constant. Lying in bed in the morning there, I would listen to the din from the freeway clogged with commuters rushing to work. I would fantasize the freeway roar was surf and crashing waves. Now, I hear the real thing, although most of the time the sedate water in our shallow bay bears little resemblance to the roar of the Pacific Ocean.

But, this morning, as I lie here welcoming the new day sounds and peaceful quiet, other sounds come back for a visit.

French men amicably talking and laughing down on the street. C'est magnifique!

Clacking of wood geta in a neighborhood Shinto temple, chanting, resonant temple bell, pigeons.

Japanese typhoon rattling our wooden house so that I thought it was going to break apart into a million flying splinters and kill us all.

Noh Play with clacking wood instruments, drum, samisen and highly formalized singing.

My mom's voice telling bedtime stories.

Our newborns' first voices. How they changed, cracked and became strong men's voices.

Flamenco guitar in Barcelona, syncopated clapping, castanets, vigorous dance steps.

A beloved, breathing soundly in sleep next to me. Suki Z. Dawg's is the only breathing going on next to me these nights.

Voice of a total stranger in a BDalton Bookstore, who upon finding a sought after book of love poetry, read aloud one of the poems to the 10 of us lucky enough to be in the store. What a fortunate woman, his wife.

The soft, whisper of snow falling one night in a little town in Utah.

Metallica ... LIVE! Oh, man!

Urgent unzippering and quickened breath ... oh, my! I well remember that sound; making me warm just thinking about it!

I had just arrived on Staten Island, NY from CA on an art scholarship, and threw open my dorm window to gaze out at the Verazzano Bridge all lit up at night. Someone, somewhere in the darkened borough was belting out I Pagliacci. Wow! Now, thatsa sound!

At this very moment, it has started gently raining, silencing all the birds and memories. My own breathing is all I hear.

Time to get my rear in gear!