Notes die at the damper, not in the photograph of the apex.

We strike a thin note across the face and count where the decay refuses to live. That hush is an early damper. Prairie mornings accelerate it because dry air eats bronze and the first swing of the day falls like a brick.

If the toe is mute and the heel still sings, the face is two bells. We will not lift the living half as a kindness to the dead half. Linnea marks the toe as lift and the heel as leave.

Players who want one verdict for the whole wedge are asking the loft to average a living peal with a brochure. The belfry declines.