This was written as a I sat poolside on a hot summer day in September.  I was staying at a favorite bed & breakfast in Aldie Virginia.

It’s warming up as I listen, finding my meditative middle ground.  The cicada song fades in and out, a stereophonic chir, as the unseen traffic radios create a doppler parade of muted musical soundbites.  Buckeyes and acorns are dropping gingerly onto the sun room’s tin roof, providing an unpredictable and suspensful percussion section.  It is quiet and clear, and sunny and warm, and I have nothing to add to this orchestral ensemble.  It is complete, with me as it’s lone audience member.  ~TH~