100 Sounds
by Kit Dobson
The sound of snowmobiles blasting across the frozen surface of Sylvan Lake, Alberta, on New Year’s Day.
The sound of fires raging across New South Wales, Australia, as streamed on the Internet.
The sound of drone strikes reported on the news.
The sound of snow falling on the blue and white spruces outside the window.
The sound of surface-to-surface and surface-to-air missiles.
The sound of a two-stroke, gas-powered leaf blower, which my neighbour uses to clear snow from his paths.
The sound of snow crunching underfoot.
The sound of a billion animals burnt to death.
The sound of three white-tailed deer walking down the path to the writing studio.
The sound of Donald Trump.
The sound of heavy ornamentation in baroque music.
The sound of an ermine darting in and out of a snowbank.
The sound of Brexit.
The sound of the ice in my eyelashes hitting the ice on my balaclava when I blink.
The sound of grief.
The sound of wine, conversation, a piano, artists sharing their work on a cold winter’s night.
The sound of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.
The sound of coronavirus.
The sound of the dog’s claws on the melted and refrozen snow.
The sound of pages turning in an old copy of Jacob’s Room.
The sound of the CBC.
The sound of rain in February.
The sound of wind picking through dried fescues and sweetgrass in a chinook-cleared grassland.
The sound of suffering.
The sound of chickadees in chinook weather.
The sound of jet engines.
The sound of public transit.
The sound of solidarity blockades on rail lines.
The sound of crowds in the Puerta del Sol, Madrid.
The sound of Twitter.
The sound of shoes.
The sound of a lizard scuttling across the warm bricks on the pathway in the garden at noon.
The sound of cars, cars, cars.
The sound of budget cuts.
The sound of parrots.
The sound of leap day.
The sound of quarantines.
The sound of stock market rallies and crashes.
The sound of the different regional accents of Spain.
The sound of wine being poured.
The sound of horns honking and feet moving.
The sound of voices through thin walls.
The sound of the state of exception.
The sound of birds in the warm Madrid morning as the lockdown begins.
The sound of anxious travellers.
The sound of airplanes.
The sound of relief upon landing in Calgary.
The sound of minus twenty weather.
The sound of snowplows.
The sound of the people of Italy, singing from their balconies.
The sound of birds, not traffic, from the balcony.
The sound of physical distancing.
The sound of stimulus packages and bailouts.
The sound of ventilator shortages.
The sound of self-isolation.
The sound of spring.
The sound of my slow, steady pulse.
The sound of online video conferencing.
The sound of dance parties in the kitchen.
The sound of daily updates from the prime minister.
The sound of the news.
The sound of the children home from school.
The sound of walking the dog.
The sound of hand sanitizer.
The sound of everything being cancelled.
The sound of K-pop.
The sound of school from home.
The sound of keys jangling.
The sound of the first robins of spring.
The sound of the laundry machine, walking across the floor during the spin cycle.
The endless, endless sound of Donald Trump.
The sound of songbirds.
The sound of the dog asking to be taken out for another walk.
The sound of onions and garlic sautéing in the pan.
The sound of spring rains.
The sound of memes.
The sound of the same day stuck on repeat.
The sound of trees in bloom.
The sound of snow piles melting and rivuleting toward the storm drains.
The sound of medical professionals conducting press conferences.
The sound of the fiftieth anniversary of Earth Day.
The sound of springtime thunderstorms.
The sound of the United States’ unravelling.
The sound of Black Lives Matter.
The sound of tentative reopening.
The sound of sunshine.
The sound of gardens.
The sound of curfews.
The sound of protest, rage and hurt.
The sound of fish jumping in the evening light.
The sound of a grouse defending her nest.
The sound of fireweed shoots.
The sound of a black bear up ahead on the trail.
The sound of keys clacking on keyboards.
The sound of a dog and coyote call-and-answer on solstice.
The sound of all of the cats, pissed off because the humans are still home.
The sound of a caress, a sigh.
The sound of stockpiling.
The sound of spruces creaking.
The sound of bated breath.
100 Sounds is out of print from The Blasted Tree store
Featured by The Blasted Tree: June 17, 2022
Kit Dobson
Contributing Author
100 Sounds by Kit Dobson is excerpted from Field Notes on Listening, published by Wolsak and Wynn in 2022
Cover design by Kyle Flemmer