SENSES IN THE MORNING
Even harsh and disturbing sounds get transformed when anticipated mayhem fail to happen. A bright sky scuttles the first frost of winter, and from a distance, the gecko-rhythm of hammers pounding on surfaces that need mending for the season's turn, could echo Wagnerian cymbals; to these old ears, almost a tinkle from Duchin. All in spite of cold weather.
I would have felt immensely pleased sipping my tea, save for the trill from the kitchen: Clean the chimney, laddie. You don't want me to die coughing, do ya?
--- Albert B. Casuga
Prompt: The first frost fades under a white sky. I’m noticing how at a distance even a sound like the banging of a hammer becomes a sort of music. --- Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 10-28-11