When the hens start to squawk in competition for their favorite egg box, I wonder what the neighbors might say. But then the crows start in with their warnings, and the hawks circle above screaming, a wren tribbles in the pear tree, and a train whistle sounds in the distance. This is a noisy world.
I am on the porch, reading Colum McCann’s Apeirogon, and I pass over pages in which he writes about composer John Cage’s 4’33”: ‘Cage’s piece was not just about the nature of silence, but also about all the sounds that could be heard within the silence…’
For a few minutes this morning I added the sounds of a typewriter, my Triumph Tippa 1 on my lap, half a page of words about satyagraha, civil disobedience and public protest and nonviolent witness in the very faces of those who corrupt and kill and steal justice.
Now it is the wind in the treetops in crescendo.
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