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The waterfall’s hushes, light aircraft droning, cicada billows. The chorus of them rising and falling like only the wind can, or heat. A chorus singing the tangible waves of sun’s expansion into the substance folds, enveloping. Later, there was a disco song coming over the outdoor loudspeakers, and endless bassline holepunched with cowbell rings and kick drums and over its uniform tapestry one of the summer birds was singing its song in key, perfectly in key, and their taut synchopation, their fluid evolvement was magic for a moment. This trusting collusion of soundspace, subtle reminder that each voice places itself, willing or not, in the shared aria.

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