I hear you, but cannot find you. Your pleasant pitch almost blends with the squeak of machinery behind me, but your tone is crisper, clearer and certainly more pleasant. You stop periodically as if to catch you breath, though I know you're not whistling, but rather rubbing legs or wings together. How steady, calm, and harmonious you sound - so sure and unfaltering. A cousin joins from a neighboring shrub, a slightly different voice and pitch. Softly, you rise into a glowing chord, joined by the tinny vibrato of the katydid. Another player adds short chirps that seem to click with joy. Like pit musicians tuning their strings, your chorus rises, the symphony as a whole instead of your solitary self.
I can hear you all simultaneously and yet also apart. I can hear you overpower and drown the machines with your bright songs. Long, peaceful notes punctuated by pleasant, short memories, underscored by a deep rhythm. The rustling leaves add a tad of percussion to the mix as I enjoy this ' found orchestra' while sitting in an amphitheater built for one. I wonder if I've interrupted a session by listening in .
The tune carries on in perpetual practice or perhaps performance. This is your occupation, the songs that carry on the wind. Ever practicing, ever perfecting the movements and codas, the timing and pauses until you've made an exquisite symphony for me, for no one, for everyone.
Without you, the song could not be as whole.
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