[Fragments from Floyd] "...The cool, heavy air today feels full of energy and ozone. It has come here all the way from the tundra, never breathed before, save by a few caribou, and fewer wolves. The sound of wind in summer treetops brings a multitude of boreal voices, a soft rushing whisper devoid of the shrill whine inflicted in December by this wind's winter relatives traveling over Goose Creek though bare branches."
[Switched At Birth] ". . .The first time I saw Buck Cove Mountain in Rice Cove, it was a late afternoon in May of 1996. Rice Cove is in the Beaverdam Community near Canton, in Western North Carolina between Asheville and Maggie Valley.
Buck and I found a log to sit on. "I'm in love," I said. "Me, too," he replied. We sat there until dark, drinking in the view, and the sound: except for the soft soughing sound of wind moving around between valley and peak, there was an absence of sound somehow deeper than mere silence. Like a grandma's feather bed, we sank into it.
[C. Little, no Less] I've posted a story from
my "Tales from the Land of Entrapment" - it's called "My Feathered Friend"
<excerpt>...Mornings we awaken, depending on the season, to honking geese, raucous crows, chortly finches and sparrows squabbling; the strange and wonderful sandhill cranes cruising by; woodpeckers working at the eaves, or comedic roadrunners chattering, challenging a watchful cat. Sometimes I lie semi-awake in bed listening for my favorite bird, so small I¡¯ve never seen her, yet she returns each spring with her distinctive song¡ªa long story with a question mark at the end. She arrives with a big voice by the time the apricot trees burst into blossom, alive with an industry of bees.
[Feathers of Hope (Pica)] I am not normally walking about at four in the morning.... Scorpius was rising in the south and the air was still... There it was, though: the drone of I-80.
[Concrete, Steel and Stone] -- My first submssion, an original essay for this topic.
"When I arrived, the slow rustling of the creek only meters from my back door was only occasionally drowned out by the throbbing of a motorcycle or frustrated hum of an 18 wheeler ripping its way through Montana¡¯s air."
[Feathers of Hope (Numenius)] This morning there was a black-headed grosbeak singing in the yard from the treetops, and a Swainson's thrush singing from lower down...
[Hoarded Ordinaries] Yesterday morning I heard the year's first house wren. We moved to Keene last July, and I can't recall if I heard house wrens then, but I know that one of my biggest differences between our old and present houses was the change in birdsong.
[Laughing Knees] I can't say why wild places draw me. The call originates somewhere out there where four walls end and the horizon catches the last light of the sun. It is something old and frightening, sets my heart drumming, and comes upon me when I am least guarded. I seek it again and again, as if expecting an answer to a question that was asked before I was born.
[O'DonnellWeb] ...This week's subject is Sounds of Place. As is my habit, I write these based on the first thought that comes to mind. I read "sounds and place", and I immediately thought, "military jet aircraft."
[P:Chatter] It is too easy to seek silence. That's all around me, behind the meaningless noises of machinery and wind and dogs. What catches my ear and tugs at my ears is voices, voices lifted slightly in ordinary -- and rare -- conversation outdoors.
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