Tired, we cut short the normal walk and drooped onto the bench that sits 10 or 12 feet above the creek, nestled in a tree-surrounded asylum a few feet from the edge of the bank. The bench is placed several feet away from the walking and biking path our feet normally travel; as it faces away from the path and toward the creek, it is easy, when sitting there, to ignore any foot traffic or bicycle wheels that pass by.

Feeling detached from the world of the path was even easier that day, as there were few feet or wheels disturbing it. We had come to the park late in the day, and the human population was sparse.

Midday brilliance had given way to some cloudiness, which combined with the fading light of the sun and the emerging leaves to muffle sight: images had no sharpness, putting us in Monet’s suggestive contemplation, not Caravaggio’s stark drama.  

No, not Monet, either. There was little shimmer of color in the fading day. In truth, we sat with Respighi, for all the color there by the creek was auditory, ancient airs inducing natural feet to dance. Only nature’s feet followed the tune: the forgotten path behind us was untrodden, the dull murmur of distant traffic that can sometimes be heard from the spot absent. The layers of sound were all natural.

The first layer was the birds, unaware that day was ending and intent on making their mating music. Or, perhaps, they were primping before a night out with their lady loves—or, rather, as the ladies of Spain would promenade in the nineteenth century, coyly displaying their attractions to the admiring caballeros, though in truth there was nothing coy about the cardinals’ bright music: they were proud of their pipes, unabashed in their self-expression. Maybe they were all teens on one of those good, non-acne days: flush with hormones and brimming with confidence.

Most of the birdsong seemed to emanate from the opposite side of the creek, our ease at hearing them combining with our inability to make the birds out visually to reinforce the auditory, not visual, aspect of the scene.  

A kingfisher, unbidden, rattled sporadically. He was probably not a-courtin’ as much as he was searching for some take-out.  Chickadees chattered cheerfully, and robins rocked their songs of romance. Ducks and geese were staying away, perhaps knowing that their size would make them visible, and that would violate the moment’s feel, perhaps sensing that their deeper tones would not suit the lightness of the sound layers.

As we listened under the birdsong, we could hear the water. The creek here generally has a slow, soundless, and stately flow, but about twenty feet downstream from the bench, and on the opposite shore, a feeder stream enters the creek. The stream’s channel is hidden by tufts of growth, and the point of juncture is not clearly visible from the bench, so we could only hear this joining, this blending of creative juices.  Because of the many spring rains we’ve had, this and all the other feeder streams were still running fast. Over the years, in its fullest times, the stream had carted stones along its flow and deposited them in a long train where it joined the creek. Thus, on this day, we could hear the water from the stream bounce over this stony area, and even make out three distinct sounds: the bright melody of stream over stone, the deeper continuo of the larger creek as it flowed over the stone, and the harmonic gurgle of the two streams blending.

Burbling brook, babbling birds: all familiar sounds, however magical. But a new layer emerged, one less common: a throbbing chorus of frogs chanting in the wetlands of the opposite shore, calling their yearning, proclaiming their need, filling the air with ranid wanting.

Words © 2010 AtHome Pilgrim.

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