Earthrise holds our attention this hundredth time, still as every photograph centring earthrise. Those white furls have signature quality that, post-shutter, separated and accumulated into new cloud. That blue is the shock absorber for serious meteors, salve for our manmade lunacies, death of many a ship. Only what do we hear during earthrise? Imagined Miró guitars from browned off deserts, staccato flocks along January coasts, interminable destination plaints of invisible freeways? Our own evanescent ambient, bombastic trekkie trumpets, The Earthrise Music of G.F.Handel? Moon breezes, barely audible, inside our padded suits? Or just our breathing and the beeps of Houston?