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| Peach tree splendour ~ Crabapple House |
The soundscape of a novel can be manmade or the sounds of nature. Or a unique blend of both. This week’s author challenge sent me to the best seat in the house when I attended a concert geared towards capturing what is heard when one is still enough to listen.
I had plans to attend an orchestral concert, but time ran away from me and instead I took my writng outside to keep company with the birds in my backyard, perched between the nectarine and peach trees.
Above me, a riot of birdsong as orchestrated and melodic as any concert, took off with no conductor other than the One who’s created these birds to sing as they do.
Above me, a riot of birdsong as orchestrated and melodic as any concert, took off with no conductor other than the One who’s created these birds to sing as they do.
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| Nectarine Goodness.... if the birds don't beat us to it. |
Many contributed their short tweets, often and short, one after the other as if in chirpy reply. Other birds screeched long and high. The background hum of a street sweeper and distant ride-on-mower reminded me I sat in the tail-end flourish of spring. Ubiquitous bees and other bugs hovered, searching nectar with the soft buzz that comes to a garden when fruit blossoms have given way to fruit buds. And I wondered if the musical celebration was in honour of the summer fruit we all anticipate and will ultimately fight for. (The birds always win. I won’t kid myself)
From the Crabapple House rooftop, one sassy bird jumped in for a solo performance. Puk, puk, puk-puk. Another kindred of his joined with her own far off echo. Puk, puk, puk-puk. A duet against the soft cooings of distant pigeons.
Beyond warm up, we were now in full birdsong symphony. The soundtrack of my writing afternoon, the last songs of spring.
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| Gilbert, my writing companion ~ Crabapple House |
Not to be left out, a latecomer I imagined owned the piccolo, added his high pitched pick-pick-pick. He dominated the music until the approaching street sweeper turned the corner and came our way. Piccolo-bird swooped off with the smooth woosh of his feathers bringing the concert to an end... and only the tss tss tss of crickets remained, perhaps the natural applause for the outdoor performance.
Recording the soundscape of my backyard in words was a fun exercise. It reminded me of the many times I’ve listened to the sounds of the beach at Phillip Island and taken notes for my story-telling.
Each season offers something unique to the story. Its own melody and lyrics.
What’s the soundscape from your window? What do you hear today? Or are you more inclined to ignore the sounds and nap under the wisteria like my writing companion?
What’s the soundscape from your window? What do you hear today? Or are you more inclined to ignore the sounds and nap under the wisteria like my writing companion?
Blessings for a wonderful weekend,
