Perpetual Composition

Christopher Hall can curl my toes with his voice.
I heard it once, live -
speakers resounding, reaching inside of me.
Sound waves vibrate everywhere.

I wonder, as the television blares through my walls,
what music those muffled voices are composing.
Is it melodic like locusts,
or dissonant like dawn at the zoo?
A man once told me, "Music is organized sound."

The rapid rhythm birds create
blend in perfect harmony
with the basses of thunderous waterfulls
and treble, leisurely streams.
Everything longs to be percussion,
and the listener is delighted by a fierce competition
between
raindrops drippling,
wind whispering
leaves leaving
and crickets chirping.
The sun and moon must be proud of the orchestra they create.

By listening closely, I can hear the music of houses and homes.
Coffee percolating a morning tune,
the click-clacking of a ceiling fan whose screws are loose,
soft, low buzzing from a dishwasher,
clocks tick-tocking,
and a spoon tapping on a cereal bowl.

The music of life can serve as a warning;
the popping and burning of a heart attack -
or an unhealthy breakfast.
The low sizzling of lung cancer -
or a freshly lit cigarette.
The deep purr of a car accident -
or an engine revving.

I miss the music of my old neighborhood.
Neighbors fighting on a corner in the wee hours,
chain link fences clunking and clanking in the wind.
Distant sounds of drive-bys,
or was it a car backfiring?
I love the constant noise of traffic.
It means we are not alone.

There is music in the sounds of silence.
The bittersweet noise of tears falling,
the soft sound of fog as it descends,
snow blanketing the earth in gentle waves,
or the songs in the hearts of the deaf -
perhaps these are the most musical of all.