I stood by my window and looked for the sound.  It was coming from the neighbor’s yard behind us, down below.  A young woman and a man were creating a gentle, metal-scraping sound.  The sound was light, like: tin-tin-tin.  I was mesmerized. 

The unevenness of the sound recalled the uneven ring of a bell buoy, only not as musical.  And quieter.  I loved the unevenness.  The sound itself was surprisingly beautiful.  And I stood there for a long time, listening.

Should I record that sound?  I thought of how long it would take me to gear up.  Then I heard the unwanted sounds of cars driving by, and didn’t feel bad for not making an effort.

The next day I was called back to the window by the sound.  And this time I could see that they were bricklayers.  They seemed to be scraping mortar on brick.  From here it looked like the mortar was already hardened and it would take more than a trowel to knock off the dried cement.

I thought about whether the sound would be different and less appealing up close compared to traveling through the air, across the yard and up to my second floor window, so beautifully.

I thought about knocking on my neighbor’s door and letting him know what I was up to, and then walking to the side of the house and recording the bricklayers.  But the white clouds of dust would certainly make their way into my expensive recorder and microphone.

Then late yesterday around suppertime, I was again summoned by the sound.  The man returned.   Solitary in the dusky light, he was mixing concrete in a wheelbarrow, creating a harsh, heavy and thick sound.  And I remembered that first sound, the sound I really wanted, dissipating into the air, as all sounds do, as I stood by my window, listening.