The winter sound of milkman's horse on bare or snowy street. Mourning doves cooing outside my window, gentle as clarinets. And inside my head, loud but somehow distant, the seashell roar of childhood nightmares. My mother's voice drifting on the summer breeze, almost part of the breeze. No sound more full of meaning than a voice, no sound more subtle.
Subtle sound allows subtle sense.
In love with people's voices discussing, arguing, hesitating over secrets, their tone revealing what they don't yet acknowledge. I can't speak with you now goodbye, yet six months later marrying her new boyfriend. In love with song, the heightened sister of speech, and with all music, our creation for exploring our own sense of hearing. Loving the voice of the piano always, from before I can remember. In love with the act of playing, a dance providing its own accompaniment.