A Hush Descends - Nov 29 2021

 

A Hush Descends

Nov 29 2021

I walk through the woods

in the cold of winter

in the low November light.

I feel chilled,

but the trees, stripped of leaves, must be shivering

naked and exposed.

Yet there they silently stand

in stoic stillness,

the wind

passing cleanly between

their bare skeletal branches.

The snow is piled thick

and more is drifting down,

wet fluffy flakes

that soak up sound

and muffle the world.

No insects buzz, chirp, rasp.

The spring peepers sleep

inanimate 'til spring.

While the birds have largely fled

their songs conspicuously absent.

And the rest of the animals

have either hunkered down

or frozen to death.

So there are no squirrels chattering,

and only a sharp-eared fox

could hear the high-pitched squeak

of frantic mice

scurrying beneath the snow.

The magnificent silence of winter.

That slow interregnum,

when a hush descends

and a depleted world rests,

taking time

to replenish itself.

Where the clump of my boots

is unexpectedly loud;

that creaking crunchy sound

that can't be helped

in cold well-packed snow,

no matter how mincingly

I pick my way.

Where I'm an unwelcome intruder

barging rudely in,

defiling

the silent sanctuary

I'd hoped would offer shelter.

A fugitive fleeing the world

while it still seems possible.

I stop, and listen closely.

Nothing to hear

but my frozen breath.