By Carey Ann Hunt
Eyes were closed. Resting on a blue-gray plaid sleeping bag on a carpeted living room floor. The winter sun set hours before. People gathered, settled, warm and comfortable. Pillows all around and blankets, too. Light dimmed to near dark. A chilly night outside. Warm inside. My blanket pulled all the way up to my chin. Breathing slowed down. Silence marked by the roar of a plane in the distance.
As thunder builds in the distance so too did the sound in the room that night when the intensity and volume began to fill the room. Padded mallets striking condensed bronze, nickel and silver alloy. Pressure building as storms do, when thunder clouds roll and grow and rains come sometimes in torrents, washing sideways with force. Building layer upon layer of sound all around me, now filling the corners of the living room. Every space packed with booming resonance pulsing like windswept currents of air turbulence over an agitated body of water. Increasing and then deceasing in magnitude.
Davisite 