Moss ambient — this Sound (, Puget,) mist crisps leaves, tops of ponds, fronds of ferns in a bronze ripple. Sap rises slow up softwood long and lean and marigold specks scratch streaks through evergreen. Spring ing from branch to brook, the interplay of sixorso (woodwind virtuosos trading solos) flutters. I sit, ear bouncing around clutter, crossed legs flinching from dew leaves up the hill where grass grows warmer. Yellow slowly swallows my curled arms, struggling to trap time as stable, steady tempo, in lap. Wind tunes the forest. Needle drops—hollow logs charge— cones stir wings, stones turn waves. Strapped with a curved cedar chamber, its net strung in nylon, I catch but a feather. Over mornings, its echo aches. They wither in song. In song, louder. Over mornings, my carved timbre shakes and tries my hand in dueling impressions: Fall of minor out to sea / homeward flood in major key / threepitch pluck updown the neck / Fleet Fox hum harmony.