The Uncrowded Signal

Imagine a radio
with its dial between stations:
a hiss like dry sand,
then half a word,
then someone counting time.

Turn gently.

The music you have asked for
needs more than crowded brightness.
Let the bass give the restless parts
somewhere to return.
Let a late note lean
across the steady beat.

A voice might wear a rough coat,
or arrive almost whispering.
Either way,
leave its consonants enough air
to carry the sentence home.

These are directions for an experiment.
The finished sound
still has to answer.

A saved song is something real.
Its measured shape is real.
Where the sung words remain uncertain,
keep the uncertainty beside it,
small and readable.

The journal grows through such distinctions:
what was asked,
what was made,
what needs another hearing.

And variety?
It can begin with one less layer,
one unexpected pause,
a reply from an instrument
usually left in the background.

Try that.

Then give the next piece
a different weather:
a sharper rhythm,
an unhurried line,
a tenderness without a swollen ending.

The dial need not travel far
for a new signal to emerge.
Sometimes the useful change
is the space
that lets a single word
come through.