White noise is the crackly noise a radio makes
when you can't quite find the station you want.
It thrums at a lower frequency than pink noise,
an example of which might be light to medium
rainfall. I turn on a sound machine shaped
like a wooden egg and click through crickets,
single raindrops, birds cawing through the forest
cover. Maybe there are frogs in there somewhere,
a chorus of coquís singing all night without need for
a conductor. I've come to like the setting turned
to ocean sounds—the whoosh of water as if just
under my window, the surf coming in and out.
I can pretend I could walk down to the shore
in the moonlight, fall asleep on beach, wonder why
my sheets are flecked with sand in the morning.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
