For the first time in way-too-long, Sam and I went down to the rail trail for a brief walk. The occasion, if you can call it that, was to see what the trail looked like under a blanket of freshly fallen snow.
When we arrived, there was no one else in sight. Judging by the indentation of what appeared to be a single bicycle track running the length of the snow covered path, someone had been there much earlier - likely just after the snow had started falling sometime the night before.
Other than that, there were no other signs of life. No Cars. No foot prints - human or otherwise. Nothing. It was just Sam and I.
We walked the path like we always do, stopping frequently to comment on how pretty things looked, this time with a coating of snow. And the quiet. Everything was so still and quiet.
I remember this as a kid, going sledding after a freshly fallen snow - and stopping every once in awhile to listen to... nothing. No sounds. No rustling of the trees. No singing of the birds. Nothing but stillness.
We kept the walk short, partly due to the cold, partly due to the effort of walking in the not-too-deep-but-still-slippery snow.
We walked as far as crossing the Bridge of Death - an uncomfortable experience (for me) under the so-called Best of Conditions. This, though, was not the Best of Conditions. The bridge was even more slippery than the path - and the normally, presumably cold water below, was now icy - offering me even less comfort than usual over the prospect of falling in.
Walking back, we again passed the field and walked back through the woods. The stillness was broken by a lone bird singing, hidden somewhere in the snow covered trees above. Sam and I stopped and stood quietly in this black and white and gray world, this otherwise silent world, and listened ... until the singing stopped.
Sam and I continued our walk, out of the woods, back to the car and headed back home.
2 comments:
Silence is not avaiable to an old bastard with tinnitus, but must be beautiful.
Silence is also not a feature of living by the ocean, but the ceaseless rumble of waves breaking on the beach renders tinnitus irrelevant. (Every cloud etc.)
And while I am imagining the beauty of snow and silence and bird song, I reflect on the harsh calls of Australian birds - the Kookaburra's derisive laughter (a fair enough response whenever I go outside) and the Wattle bird's "poofta, poofta" call (which compells me to point out to them that they have the wrong address, and that the object of their commentary lives down the street at number 3)
That's lovely.
The snow is beautiful - as long as you don't have to shovel it or drive on it. As pretty as it can be, it starts to lose it's allure sometime around December 26th.
And as much as I like the silence, I would choose the ceaseless rhythm of your ocean waves, along with your singing/laughing/barking birds, over our deafening silence, no matter how peaceful, any day.
(...well, most days, that is.)
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