“In the great silence of the brackish waters behind our homes,” he heard the voices of myriad unknown creatures joining together in something between the buzzing of the nervous system in an anechoic chamber and the wistful moan of the gyaling, the Buddhist oboe. He heard photosynthesis itself — the regular rhythm of plants exchanging oxygen through

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Ancient, this shape-song. In it, rhythm of tide, of moon-ripple played out on night water. Of buoy-clang near the beach and shore of man. Of crab-scuttle and claw-clack. Of fish-dart and propeller-chug. Of whale-song in the wave. Rhythm of the struggle in the jaw of the shark, the loss of limb and spray of ink as the hero battles back against

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