The fluorescent light sings like a cricket
from some dank corner of a cellar.
And perhaps it is calling me into its den;
It is to me, after all, sound and not noise,
though to some it comes across as irritating static.
A train passes like the climax of a great symphony,
reverberating through the perfect acoustics of a clear, winter eve.
Each note executed in random perfection,
warming my weary spirit with the grace of a song.
It is to me, after all, music and not noise,
though to some it comes across as a bothersome interruption.
from Confusion: a finer distinction
by Michael R. Martin c.1978