My Mya-Moe Ukulele Brought this memory back..
As teenagers in cars sometimes older than us, we were branching out. On this day we found ourselves trolling for trout on the East bank of Pine View Resevoir in North Middle Utah. The conversation bore no memories, but could be heard in a natural voice over the low drone of the motor. I do not recall how long it was before the Whole Port side of our world changed.
Suddenly, and sounding like it was coming from nowhere and everywhere all once, a wall of sound overwhelmed us. With Drones and whirs and whistles and pure notes with buzzings rising and falling in volume. We looked at each other in mild shock, scrunching our shoulders and asking in various ways, what is that? The motor was shut off and we sat there stunned. It was like being behind a transparent Pollock canvas watching the colors shape and form the moods of the artist soul. The motor was struck and we pointed the bow towards this show, hoping to find the source. These sounds continued and were coming at an uncreased tempo matching the boats new speed. They were so fluid mecurial and ever changing, it seemed like we were moving into Boreal Lights of Sound. Words can never keep up to the Muse that was alive this. We continued towards the west bank as the volume diminished to silence. We coasted up to the west shore, that was actually a sheer and tall cliff. It was about 100 feet high and nearly 500 yards long. From a distance nothing about it was distinctive. As we floated up to the base it became astonishingly apparent what was at work here. Swallows had built their enclosed clay homes, literally side by side. Beginning 20 feet above the water and going as high as was safe, they ran as far to North as the eye could see. It seemed the only agreement to build was that one could not block a neighbors' door. With each bird choosing its place. The dwellings door, while catching the wind, played in this Magic. We sat there taking in the Magnitude of what we were seeing. Then it began again at the far end of the cliff. It approached us on the wind. When it reached us, the bells above began ringing. We sat there washed in this ebbing and flowing, until the sun had risen so high, the wind moved away to play somewhere else. We fished back to the truck. Again the conversation bore no memories. I have think I was there, when the Great Spirit busted a riff on that pitch pipe. With Myrtle I get to hear it forever.