Maverick, you're at three-quarters of a mile. Call the ball.Roger -- Maverick has the ball!

They went out past the young sentry, who paid the visitor no attention.  The sun was shining and in spite of the cold there were a few bucks and does at silflay, keeping out of the wind as they nibbled the shoots of spring grass.  It seemed to Hazel that he would not be needing his body anymore, so he left it lying on the edge of the ditch, but stopped for a moment to watch his rabbits and try to get used to the extraordinary feeling that strength and speed were flowing inexhaustibly out of him into their sleek young bodies and healthy senses.

-- Richard Adams, Watership Down

My point of observation is the trail that runs behind the Alumni House and down to the river in North Bennington.  It runs through some woods to a road.  Then you follow some signs until you arrive at another trail.  This other trail is known as The Mile Around The Woods. It has several different entry points, and most of them lead you into fields and farmland.  The fields, like the forest, are a pleasant surprise to come upon.  They are both beautiful.  When it rains it gets muddy, and when it hasn't rained, it's usually still wet.

Once you've walked The Mile Around The Woods, you can follow a dirt road down behind the Park McCullough House.  From here you will probably find yourself on West Street, and from here you can probably get to any road in either North or South America -- I assume.  If you're a Bennington student, you'll probably take West Street over to Powers Market then up the hill to campus -- I suppose.  Because by now you'll have been walking for some time.  Once on campus you'll probably do something besides walking through the woods and down the road.  Maybe homework?  I guess?

The first time I walked on the trail behind the Alumni House, I did all of the aforementioned things.  Though it didn't occur to me until a few moments ago that you could get almost to anywhere in North, South, and even Central America from West Street.  That said, it wouldn't have come as a surprise if you had told me that yesterday -- the realization I just now had, that is. 

The second time I walked on the trail, the day after hurricane Hanna had passed through, there was suddenly a small stream running right through the trail.

I find myself here now, once again, for the purpose of observing sound.  Well -- I knew I was coming here before I left, but the word "find" stills feels appropriate.

I'm here to observe the sound of this spot, and I'm doing this because I was instructed to do so.  Upon getting to the spot, Randall Neal helps me to remember that sound is a blessing.  Not just some sounds -- all of them.  He found this out, like me, from John Cage -- I think.

Sitting here, I realize that all I see and feel is a blessing.  If you had told me this yesterday, it would not have come as a surprise, but it would have been a blessing to be reminded, and if I had felt in that moment as I do now, I would have experienced a deep love for you and all that was around. 

So now I come to the sounds.  The first thing I will speak of is the sound of a flowing stream.  It is a sound (made up of too many sounds to count) in the middle of high and low, and it is a constant sound.  In many places the water falls from one level to another, and it is here that I observe the sound of falling water.  It sounds not unlike a typical backyard fountain or a CD you might hear when receiving a massage.  It is the sound of several hundred breaking points coming together at almost the same time.  In the distance there are additional places where the water falls, and for one reason or another, the breaking points sound different.

If you listen to the breaking points that are closer and then the ones that are further away and then the ones that are in between, you find that they all have subtle differences.  No two breaking points are alike.  There is an infinite amount of nuance in a matter of a few feet.  There is also much to be observed with the eyes, but this will have to be written down at a different time.

Then there is the sound of the wind blowing through the trees.  This sound has an ebb and flow as the wind changes its intensity.  As you listen to the wind blowing through the countless number of leafs and observe their rustle, you can start to hear a sound very similar to a distant rumble of water.  This rumble of water, I'm imagining, would have to be much larger than the stream, which wills itself past me with the help of gravity and perhaps even God. I'm talking about the rumble of a large waterfall, a hundred yards or so away.

Beyond this there is the sound of the passing traffic on the road not far below.  The large trucks are the most obvious autos for obvious reasons.  This sound is like the sound of a truck from three hundred yards away.  Then there are the sounds of the cars, which are not all that unlike the sounds of the trucks.  The cars tend to be quieter; but upon careful attention, you find no two autos or trucks sound the same.  This could be said for three of them, also.

At one point a car horn blows, and I become frightened.  Then I chuckle out loud, even though no one is around.  My ego assures me that I am tough, despite the fact that I have just been scared. 

The sounds of the stream, wind, and trees are in the foreground.  These sounds are constant in their presentation to my ears.  The flowing water, when observed as a singular sound, is very much sustained.  The wind in the trees comes and goes but is never fully gone.  The autos are sporadic, and their sound comes in and out of the sounds of the forest.  It is important to note, however, that with the eyes closed and mind open, the sounds of the autos do not seem foreign or invasive to the forest world.  They have an effect I would equate to an otter swimming about in the sea.  Even though the otter moves freely through the water, it is still one-hundred percent supported by the water.   

Last but not least are the sounds of the birds.  What kinds of birds, I cannot say.  The only birds I know by sound are crows and woodpeckers, and these are neither.  I also know ducks and geese and probably others, if I really thought about it.  Strangely enough, it is the sound of the birds that seems most foreign to the woods.  Perhaps it is because their calls are so few and far between.  Perhaps it is because these sounds are from living, breathing creatures and seem somehow contrived.  It might not feel right to say that about a bird, but out here, right now, it somehow does.

The birdcalls seem to be entering this world from another world.  When the otter is swimming underwater and a human being throws a large rock (not too large -- otherwise, it would be to difficult to throw) into the water, it is possible that the otter perceives the sound in the same way, as foreign or invasive.  (Here we must suspend our disbelief and imagine that the otter has the mental capacity to think in these terms.)  Similarly, if the otter is swimming in an area where there is a lot of boat traffic (hopefully it is being very careful), perhaps its perception of the boats is similar to my perception of the autos.  Our experiences are different in that I'm hearing sounds I'm accustomed to hearing but hearing them in a different place, whereas the otter is hearing sounds it is accustomed to hearing in the place it spends most of its time. (?)

Interesting to note -- I did not imagine the sounds of autos when thinking about what I would hear when I arrived.  The only sound I imagined hearing was the sound of the stream.  I feel kind of silly for imagining this.  Remembering back to previous trips to wooded areas, it is very common to hear the sounds of autos in the distance, not to mention all the other sounds I mentioned above.  I did not even imagine the sound of birds previous to my trip.  The birds, which seem somehow foreign to the other sounds, are still very much a natural part of the experience.  All of the sounds are essential to the whole of the experience.

Each is a blessing.

How Nice.