Silent Country

As I laid in the grass, soaking up some pre-spring sun in the tall, tall brome, I couldn't help but think about the quiet that was making so much noise around me.

And although I usually think it prose, in memoir, this moment seemed like it needed something more.

Silent country
It's quiet along that old, gravel road.
No background music.
No women laughing
or crying
No fans cheering.

It seems almost silent
when technology isn't controlling,
when screens are black
when speakers are off.

But lay back in the solitude
where grasses tap your cheeks
and the bright sunlight seems to speak.
And it's not quiet at all.

Rat a tat tat.
The downy woodpecker moves
along the branch
tapping, tapping, tapping
for dinner along the way.

Phoow.
Winds gust as a mass
of starlings make their way
from the grove giants
to the field stubble.

Gobble gobble gobble.
There's no disguising the sound
of the dark mass in the distance
that reveals itself through its call.

Honk honk honk.
To-wheet.
Crunch.
Glug.
Whoosh.

Silence is golden.
It's also black, brown,
gray, white,
clear,
blue
and yellow.