July 4th, 2020

Whale fluke

Fireworks. It's sounding like "Apocalypse Now" without The Doors.

Quickly, a Poem of Noise
by Christopher Walsh, 7/4/2020



We had Pandemic Quiet.
April gave us an early Spring that,
In this once-in-a-century (we hope) year,
Made noise with mainly birdsong and breeze.
Fewer cars. Fewer events. Fewer doings.
Fewer noises caused by us.
That is...no longer the case.
That is especially no longer case this week,
With the fireworks.
And fireworks. And fireworks. And fireworks.
From well before dark to well after, well, more dark.
Noise and blasts from most every direction except below
(And is that going to somehow happen now?
"Fireworks stash blasts crater into street" reads a future headline,
One I hope never happens),
A sky rended with explosions enough that I have to remind myself
These booms can't damage or break the air.
My younger self would be surprised: I'm tired of the displays.
Fireworks can be amazing and awe-inspiring:
I know from sitting on the Washington Monument's hill
(It's true: 1985, my first D.C.-area summer)
And the booms seemingly everywhere,
A ceiling of fireworks, a shield.
Now: no. I'm tiring. Sighing,
Knowing that too much of this for too many nights
Can be assault.
Who is scared tonight? Who is freaked? Who needs sleep and can't get to it?
And so too many of us
Simply
Not care? Except for the boom?
We have Pandemic Noise.
I'd prefer the quiet.

* * *

...huh. Wasn't quite expecting that to come out of me. I guess I have feelings on the subject.

© Christopher Walsh, 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.