Percussive sound

It's a beautiful warm afternoon with a keen chilly wind blowing torpedo shaped clouds out of the bird blue sky. I dig the weeds from the soon-to-be strawberry patch, my fork lifting and gently pitching the clods of earth into the air, catching them against the prongs before they fall to the ground. The noise is a rain-shower and a rattle; strings of beads being lifted from a polished wooden dresser. The forks prongs vibrate, a struck tuning fork that resonates in my rib-cage. I get lost in the sounds of this place, it's all percussive, like the rest of the band have yet to arrive and we're the only players here, warming up, testing our chimes, wood blocks, snare-drums, practising our hand-claps. The overhead cables strung between the electricity pylons are the musical score, lines drawn on a blue enamel sheet of tin. I imagine the sounds of our industry painted upon it and smile at the thought of it as music; can see the trumpet player listening, his bowed head gently nodding in time to the rythmm until it's his time to play.

I bend down and blow into a cloche made from a cut-off litre water bottle and the sound around me warms, like switching the old radio in the bathroom over from "Speech" to "Orchestra". I wonder if the little seedling housed inside feels it too, or if it's just me and the wind.