It was foggy out this morning. I sat on the porch with my coffee for an hour or so listening to the sounds in the fog: the startling bray of one of the miniature donkeys on the farm next door; the lowing of a cow across the way; the caw-caw-caw of a crow. Each sound distinct and seemingly unconnected and random.

For the most part, the sounds I heard were natural. Except for the occasional intrusion of an invisible automobile  on Rt. 52, it was the animals who were speaking. Mostly I heard the birds. A single, high-pitched tweet here, followed by a lower twitter there, and a rapid tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet over there.  I’m trying to identify birds and learn their calls. I’m sure one of the calls I heard this morning was from a cardinal; I’m  just not sure which one.

The fog bends sound, muting some while simultaneously amplifying others. The different sounds become isolated events, giving you a chance to focus on a sound, hearing it and only it for a brief moment. I felt like I heard some sounds for the first time. I understand now, why the crow’s caw-caw-CAW can seem so menacing. A disembodied threat looming out of a chilly, enveloping cloud.

As the  fog burns off, the sounds develop relationships and context. They become more cohesive, and less distinct. The level swells and increases. Sounds that weren’t there a few minutes ago lend their voices to the growing din. The overture is finished, and the symphony has begun.