The sounds of the morning,
as perceived up in the bedroom:

The thunder of the tumble dryer
down in the hall,
holding up in short pauses;
the flute of Hariprasad Chaurasia
in Raga Darbari Kanada, Alap & Jor,
winding
like a cobra between the speakers
down in the living room;
the bird picking, clawing & scratching
up on the tin roof
- and the thin pages
of Douglas Hofstadter's Le Ton beau de Marot
being flipped by my hands in front of my face;
the dryer providing the soaring, rumbling base
for this musique concrète score;
the drone
that everything else has to relate to,
like the cosmic background noise
when you're scanning existence for alien intelligence,
but which – when it pauses – opens peepholes
onto the other sounds; windows on puppet show scenes
of this winter morning, still dark as the Earth tilts away
from the blinding eye in the sky