Thomas Doty – Storyteller

Siskiyou Pass

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The Music of the Stars

Camped in the high Siskiyous, a fall breeze floats night sounds from ridge to ridge: the snap and buzz of insects, the whisper of owl wings, the crash of deer. Then a bonging sound beyond the ridge, like a bell, perhaps the music of the stars. So faint, distorted by the blur of the breeze, it is almost unreal, like hearing Pan play his pipes or seeing a white deer in the snow.

Next morning, heading home, I pass a herd of cows grazing the upper slopes, and a bell dangles from the lead cow's neck.

But too many facts spoil a good story. Thinking back to when I heard the music of the stars, I'd just as soon leave the cows out of the picture.