My Local Wind Symphony Orchestra—Part 2

As I became absorbed by the wonderful evening's performance of the orchestra, I became more attentive and increasingly discerning, as I began to be able to distinguish the subtle qualities of the individual sections of the orchestra. The violin-like section—in the sense that it most often carried the melody—was the higher-pitched "shirring" sound made by the wind gently blowing through tree branches. Often it blossomed into a complete string section of various complementary voices—like violins, violas, and cellos. The sound of the wind shirring through pine branches is akin to an airy-sounding whistle. It was the violins, I realized. The bare branches of deciduous trees (it was late November, with no leaves on the trees) shirred at a bit lower pitch, like violas. As the wave moved off through distant trees, the sound was deeper yet; cello-like. The shirring section played in an undulating manner—gently beginning, rising to a crescendo, and then falling back into silence—over and over.

A second wind section was similar to the woodwinds in a human orchestra—creating playful bursts of whirls, as gusts blew by. The sound might be high-pitched like a flute or more like the bold blast of the trumpet section. Their voice would come unexpectedly, and then quickly pass away. This section provided a sometimes-comic voice.

Immediately following the woodwind section, the voice of an almost percussion-like section would rattle nearby. The vortices spun off the gusts would swirl along the ground, kicking up leaves and causing them to rattle and settle back into place.

There was also a baritone and bass woodwind chorus. They sounded out with a sustained, soothing, deep sounding "whoosh"—that came from the collaboration of hundreds of voices, all at a distance. Their gentle undercurrent could be heard only when no louder wave was passing nearby.

From time to time, when all the close-at-hand voices had rested for a moment, I could make out a very distant subtle roaring sound—almost like an airplane flying many miles away. The muted roar of this section of the orchestra felt powerful, but was simultaneously very quiet, since it was so far away. It emitted a sound even steadier than the baritones and basses—as if thousands of gentle wind sounds for many miles around had combined in a continual background chorus.

Suddenly I heard another subdued percussive sound. It was not the wind, but an extremely light, icy form of precipitation that was falling around me: sleet. I could hear it only when all other voices of the orchestra paused for a few moments. The very soft pitter-pat of tiny sleet particles falling on dry leaves was like a distant snare drum, quietly tap-tapping—providing a hushed interlude between the voices of the various wind sections.

A sensational and bonus dimension to my Wind Symphony Orchestra—that no human orchestra offers—was tactile, olfactory, and even visual sensations that it offered. As wind eddies peeled off and whirled through the underbrush, some of them swirled around my head—cooling my cheek and wet head. The breezes kissed me. It was sometimes accompanied by a rich, strong smell of soil and composting leaves. Even though it was dark and cloudy, I could look up and see black tree trunks waving in a deep gray-colored sky—as though the trees were conducting the symphony that whirled around me.

Most of my neighbors would laugh at my suggestion of a local symphony orchestra. But they don't pause to sit outside in the dark on a cold winter’s night and get very quiet. The orchestra could be performing its beautiful symphony all around them, but would remain unheard, as they hurry inside. The only creatures listening are a few wild critters and me. We're all grateful for the splendid concert.

My Local Wind Symphony Orchestra—Part 1

The “downtown” center of my little corner of an Appalachian backcountry county is an intersection containing a small grocery store and one house. We live half a mile away, by the crow’s route, but over three miles by car. It's a community that can be found only on a very local map. It has two unique attributes. The one that most local folks will tell you about is the artesian spring across from the store—where water endlessly flows from a steel pipe. As the story goes, someone tried drilling for oil, several generations back. They never struck black gold, but after going down many hundreds of feet, they tapped into a perpetual (so far, anyway) supply of pure water. Some folks still stop there to fill their jugs up with the clean, cold water.

The second attraction of my community is its Wind Symphony Orchestra. That's right—our tiny burg has its very own wind orchestra! Ask any local other than me, however, and they'd stare at you, puzzled. They might even hoot over such a silly thought.

However, our Wind Symphony Orchestra is for real. I've listened to its fine performances many times. My peak music treat came on a winter’s night last year, as I was soaking contentedly in the hot tub. It was a dark, breezy evening—with gentle waves of wind wafting through the surrounding woods. As I lay back in the tub, I fell into my usual deep relaxation. My mind dropped all trivial thoughts, as my attention turned to the complexly-blended sounds of the wind moving through the forest.

The breeze was slightly unsteady, but soft. Waves would periodically move through the trees. I could hear them coming from a half mile or more distant. They would approach, whoosh quietly by me, and flow off down the hollow. Small, abrupt gusts would intermittently speed by, whistling through the trees and kicking up dry leaves. Whirls of eddies would spin off these gusts and twirl around me, causing leaves to leap up and dance in circles. One gentle wind after another would crest, spill, spread, and then quietly dissipate. For long moments between them silence would rule—an utter stillness in the air. Then I'd hear the far-off hush of the next wave headed towards me. My mind's eye would go out to it and ride along, as it sailed my way, through the woods.

The night's soothing breeze wrote the score for my Wind Symphony Orchestra. It was a concerto of many movements—each one related to the others in a coherent, creative masterpiece. The passing waves were played out by the various musical movements—all adagio. They were then punctuated by brief, gusty allegros that enthusiastically offset the slower, wavelike parts of the score.

My Wind Symphony Orchestra contains several sections—most all of them made up, of course, of wind instruments. There are hardly any drums, cymbals or other impulsive percussion; I guess we can’t afford them in such a small community. The ebb and flow of the symphony they were playing featured, in a beautifully rotating manner, the orchestra's various wind sections. I could hear the melody shift from section to section, as the surrounding instruments played a gentle backdrop to the main theme. Now there might be a single wind section playing its solo. Now a duet between two sections. Now the whole orchestra building into a grand crescendo, in a magnificent blending of voices.

More on the symphony next time…