Fiction: You Call that Music?

You call that music?  That infernal roar? With a heavy beat that punctuates the air:  BANG BANG BANG BANG so that you feel trapped in the sound?
That isn’t music.  Let me tell you what music is.
It is the call of a whippoorwill, Whip-poor-willthe swoop of an oriole, the gurgle of a chickadee.
It is the murmur of the katydids, the rasp of the crickets, the crackle of the fireflies.
It is the rustle of the wind, the whistling of a gale, the roar of a tornado.
It is the noise of coming and going, near and far, out and in.
It has endless variety, its rhythms are complex, and it is mostly so faint that you can’t hear it unless you pay close attention.
This music is a net that gently enraptures you as you gradually immerse yourself in it.
That infernal roar is a trap that you can’t escape unless you run run run away.
Run and get away, or your eardrums will explode and you will suffer from deafness at an early age.
And you will never hear the faint sounds,
Of a bird as it rises
On a warm spout of air
Or the rasp of a cricket
Or the faint
Of wind
On a rainy day.


–Cynthia Haggard writes short stories, novels and poetry.  During the day, she is a medical writer. For more about her medical writing services, go to clarifyingconcepts.  For more on her creative writing, go to spunstories.   (c) 2009. All rights reserved.

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