A Little Night Music

What is the strange and deep attachment I have to certain music played at night through the open windows and doors of my house, into the rocky rolling terrain of the GNC?  It’s not the volume that thrills me – it’s not that loud – it’s the longevity of the music’s wave through the atmosphere.  The critters living upslope are too far away to hear the music, but I have the feeling that they know music has been played downslope.  I bet the sound waves they do hear leaving my deck have an imperceptible undertone of harmonics out of the ordinary for them. 

Other than the creatures and me, there’s no one to hear the music drifting into the edge of the night shade.  The nearest occupied house is more than a half-mile away West or East; my amps don’t reach them or the houses North across the Schoharie.   Their earshot is muffled by the rhythm of its current.  To the south, there is no one for miles and two thousand feet of elevation gain to share my musical choices.  After passing through me, the music undulates into space for whatever good may come of it.  It’s my way of sending a signal for the SETI scientists.

On other nights, the electronic equipment is silent and the music I hear is outside coming in -- a symphony of jagged terrain, creatures buzzing in all keys, shifting shadows, rhythmic current providing an unending bass line, being played for me and anyone else who takes the time to shake out the rattle and hum and listen to it.  

Inside out or outside in, either way is fine with me.  (What was I playing when I wrote this?)