I look through the glass window panes and I see its snowed overnight. Oh lord, I need boots and gloves and should I start hauling firewood, plowing, shoveling, it’s a what to do first thought. New snow, new work load.
I bundle up, open a door to it, it, it’s cold, so I close the door tightly and turn to meet snow. And like the magic the snow has performed in my yard, it somehow performs instantly in my head.
I wasn’t really ready for a new dawn, a new day; I was ready to get all cranked about the work. And poof, it’s so quiet outside I don’t move a muscle.
Today it’s so early I can be a little cocky and call it predawn. I like the earliest part of every day the best and who knows why but I’m just struck by such a feeling of, Soundless. Yeah, no sound what’s so ever? It’s so rare to actually try and listen, yet hear absolutely nothing.
I feel the snow falling. No wind. Whiteness has again refreshed or recovered everything I see. It’s not even fair to think about moving right now. I don’t want to mess up the moment with me possibly creating noise with one of my boots scrunching in the soft snow. I stand in complete, total, silence.
Across my driveway a stand of balsam, how ironic in the early morning, the view is but black and white. My bird feeder has a new fluffy roof. My garage looks like a gnome home. It’s a shame to think I have to plow my driveway and shovel the walk.
So do I move, or just take it in for a few more minutes before its gone. What if a big plow truck drives down the county trunk, what if a chickadee, dee, dee, dee’d me into today.
Now I wonder about something, anything, disturbing what I’ve come to know is my silence. It’s a good thing the snow can’t hear what’s whirling around in my head. The trout whisperer