Tuesday, October 15, 2019

The birds in the noise tree may be invisible. I've heard them chattering, shrieking, and singing since I moved here, but, even when the branches are more bare, I haven't seen them. Tonight, the air is cooler than it has been. This afternoon, rain fell for the first time since spring. Now, after dark, the birds are performing for each other and the people below. I stand quietly beneath the tree with a stereo recorder. Above me, the sound of the birds shifts between left, center, and right, as if a conductor were triggering scattered choirs overhead. The deeper roars and rumbles of traffic contrast with their song, providing an unstable bass line closer to the ground. The voices of passing people start and stop, filling in the middle range. I see little of this happening as I focus on the recorder's meters. Backing away when I'm done, I collide with the wall of what had been a cafe behind me. I turn and look inside. The shop is dark, its floor completely clear except for the chairs still stacked against the glass. Images of people, bikes, and buses pass through the reflected light. I still see no birds.