Today it warmed up considerably after some very cold weather. I love the outdoors but not the cold so really find cold winter weather confining. While cleaning up a pile of brush, I noticed how quiet it was, no birds singing, no sounds, nothing except an occasional soughing of the junipers during a wind gust. Some friends stopped by and immediately commented on the quiet. It suddenly struck me just how different this is from the rest of the year, especially spring and summer with endless birdsong and raucous insect symphonies. At dusk when I finally went inside, I sat down and wrote this poem:
The deer meander along the canyon rim,
stop, browse bare bushes
in silence.
The bobcat climbs the canyon wall,
surveys his rugged realm
in silence.
The coyotes run above the rim,
watchful, wary,
in silence.
Now, in January, the birds stop to drink
from the blue birdbath, bobbing
in silence.
At night, the stars and moon
illuminate my sleep
in silence.
writingontherim 