THE SOUND

The sound of a geisha’s wooden clogs upon the lonely and narrow cobblestone streets of Kyoto, as she returns home at three A.M.

The sound of the breeze, and the beat of the bass, as whiney engined tuk-tuk flies over mountain tops, the sea on the horizon, the intoxication of the exotic abounds.

The sound of the call to prayer, and aggressive bartering in the steamy Thieves Market of Singapore’s Arab Street.

The sound of an ancient karaoke machine and the Filipino accent’s never-ending enthusiasm, singing American 80’s top hits for twenty-four-hour stretches, in the shanty villages of the steamy tropics only accessible by longboat.

The sound of never-ending Bajans blasting over popped loudspeakers, that blend with the endless stream of honking horns of New Delhi, making the madness of the mind seek nirvana.

The sound of serenaded loved ones courting along Lover’s Bridge, next to the collapsed beams of the giant church, now a giant birdcage to giant condors in Barranco, Peru.

The sound of iguanas leaping into the river, from the tall branches of the trees that fill the El Yunque rainforest of Puerto Rico.

The sound of the predawn, and relentless bell of the garbage collectors, slowly replaced by the ear-piercing scream of the comote vendor’s steam pipe, and looping audio of tamales rico in La Roma, Mexico City.

The sound of the joyous flute of the ancient Mayan Corn Maiden Ceremony, or the sorrowful beat of the holy week processions of Guatemala, that simultaneously uplift and haunt the soul.

The sound of a bird refuge, the incoming tide, the breeze, and the far off fog horn of an inbound ship along with an isolated, and perfectly preserved stretch of shoreline, in Canada’s Bay of Fundy.

The sound of roosters, the ancestors of fighting cocks, that outnumber man ten-to-one waking the island of Key West, Florida, where Hemingway’s three-toed cats prowl.

The sound of the beating drums of the pow wow of the American southwest, the ancient reunion of the ancestors beating their feet upon the desert floor, stirring up dust and prayers.

The sound of silence in the backcountry of Wyoming’s Yellow Stone National Park, with a heard of buffalo on the horizon and peace in the mind.

The sound of the Philharmonic Orchestra, drowning out the desperate cry of frustrated cabbies punching their horns, in New York City. The sound of the birds’ chorus, as the sun sets in the river valleys and vast prairies of the American Midwest.

The sound of a New Orleans jazz bar or better yet the stranger seating at the bar next to you singing the delta blues with a deep throaty mouth full of soul straight into your heart.