There is the music
we hear
              that is not of the vibration
              of quivering chords
              nor of skins held taut
                              but is of the melodies
                              of the intertwining loves
                              that are our very lives.
It is a music
we do not hear
              in our ear
              but in our heart.
 
 

There is the music
we hear
              that is not of the vibration
              of seasoned wood
              nor of tempered metal
                              but is of the harmonies
                              blending sky, mountain, creek, and sun
                              that show us glimpses of lives to come
It is a music
we do not hear
              in our ear
              but in our soul.
 

The music we hear is a tune that encompasses mosquito whine, chain saw buzz,  and song -- and moves on beyond to priestly drone. It is a medley of neonatal yowl; toddler’s laugh; teenage giggle; lover’s moan; discreet ahem, gasp, cough, sneeze, fart, snore of maturity; old one’s sigh, rattle, and wheeze; widow’s lament. It starts with a wombborne beat, and builds in augmentations and variations from simple lullaby through the crescendos of life in full orchestral voice to settle once again into the solitary sigh of wrinkled eternity, the soft dullness of the dead man’s eyes turned no more to the world outside but tuned only to the rhythms of all existence. Om Mane Padme Hum. Home, Mommy. Home at last. Home from the Range. Home at last.
 

The music we hear ends with thump of earth on coffin wood. Ram Ram Sattwa Hai. La Ilaha Ilallahu. Baruch Atoh Adonai. In nomine Patris...et Spiritus Sancti. Let us raise our voices and sing! Let the music begin!