Our little town is, to me, like a complex symphony that i could never notate.

The trees, seated in the mountains on either side of our valley, are the audience.  They are silent save for the wind blowing through their branches.  The audience breathes.

The contrabass and cello enter first as the buses and trucks rumble through the valley and along the river, to and from the city.

Percussive bursts from intercoms, mounted on trucks, punctuate the cello perfectly with announcements of what’s for sale today.  Tomatoes, propane, pineapples, watermelons, honey.

Hints of reggae can be heard from upstairs, while banda, hip hop and 80s pop waft through the valley.

The roosters trumpet at their cue and the turkey’s trill their response.

The dogs bark like too many bassoons and the hens pick up the melody where the turkeys left off.

The kids screech and bellow like overexcited beginner violinists.

I don’t know who is the conductor of this orchestra but i am thankful to them for assembling such a spectacularly vivid aural pallette for me to sample on a daily basis.