It's in this liminal moment
That wires begin to rustle.
To throw a rhythm upon a snare,
And make a bass begin to hustle.

What follows is a pregnant pause.
And upon intone of higher tone,
In to and fro in shimmy shuffle,
An electric lead begins alone.

I shut my eyes in reverie
That I may see just what I hear:
A sonic stream that washes sound,
For paean of pattern everywhere.1