I woke to white trees, every branch softly furred, a white world, our world disappearing, winter's world, a world covered and filled with snow, and it's still snowing. Silence and the  stunning black/white geometries of trees, the undersides of branches still bare.

As much as the white, the silence: the muffled calm, the stunned vacuum, so we can hear what's left--the wind scraping, the clatters, the grind of an engine, the sharp/fading cries of the Canada Geese disappearing into the sky's starred whiteout. So we can remember what we don't know, the ancient silence we felt when we were new here. And in that remembering, in letting that primal memory surface, we can feel, again, the stunning wonder of this rock we spin through the winter of space on.

Most of us will die as strangers in our own home--but the snow makes us see how haunted, how beautiful, how odd that home is. It's right out there, the oceanic silence, time itself in its white guise.
 


Comments

Allan DiBiase
03/09/2013 6:54am

In Thoreau's Journal there's an sustained devotion to "silence". Within that context, sound of almost any kind comes to him as "music". So to hear, so to see.

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