It doesn’t announce.
The low rumble lives
below the frequency of the day—
gives no single incident to point to,
no crisis moment.
It’s the residue of accumulated grey,
the background frequency of the not-quite,
the sound of the ongoing weight
played low and constant,
always present.
The low rumble of the ongoing—
the frequency I’m knowing,
the hum below the manageable surface,
the low rumble: not purposeless,
it carries information—this
is the weight I’m running with, the hiss
of the grey beneath the functional day—
the low rumble: the price of the okay.
I used to call it normal.
The default frequency. The baseline.
The soft assault too gentle to be called an assault.
I lived with it the way the body lives
with chronic—below the notice threshold,
above the floor.
The low rumble held its tension quietly for years.
I’m learning to hear the frequency, the slow discerning.
So I’m attending now—the low rumble carries
something worth the ear. The frequencies
of the grey have pitch and variation—
I’m tuning in, the patient calibration
of the listening to what the grey is saying.
The low rumble: the ongoing, the playing
of the long return I’ve been in from the start.
I hear it now. It’s been here.
The grey: my art.