the landscape was perfectly still last night.
the snowglobe reconsidered its purpose.
i love nights like this, early in the season. they set the threshold for acoustical acceptance. even distant saw-whet songs carry unfettered to the land-based listener.
i can’t state that enough. noise must have purpose for it to be removed from the category of noise.
often on still nights, when there are no sounds, my mind creates them for me. i hear the saw-whet, the boreal, the great gray. i go to sleep with monotonous toots and ascending stacattos lulling my brain to complacency.
before midnight, i was standing in one of my favorite areas of many favorite areas. i don’t need to bore you with whimsical retellings of “once, there were owls here”, but once, there were owls there.
i stood in bright moonlight, in the sharp shadows of spring.
my hearing was perfectly focused.
in the distance, i heard the sound of rushing water where no water existed.
the roar of meltwater grew, then raised above the plain of the earth. limbs creaked, and the initial gusts of an advancing coldfront slapped against my skin with pulses of pure air.
it was invigorating and sensually complete. sound, touch, sight, smell.
no owls, but that was okay.