It is quiet today. Except for the birds. And the rushing spring across the way. One wouldn’t think a spring could be so loud, tumbling over rocks, through grass, down, down, down until it falls into the creek below, a diminutive waterfall past it’s prime of melted snow and spring showers. Sometimes, those times, it roars. Especially after a heavy snowfall when winter has waved it’s good-bye, but hasn’t entirely closed the door.
On those days, the white muffles the valley, the lone sound of the stream echoing off the hills. The splashes and tinkles bounce up and up, until I hear them through a window cracked open to breathe in the chilly refreshing air and to hear the sounds of my world wrapped in white. All clean, cold, wet.
But not on this day. Today it is a trickle, the soft sound barely audible over the birds so busy on their courtships and honeymoons and nest building. It is spring. The wild cherry is in full bloom. Beneath it my horse stands, asleep in the sun, his long tail lazily swishing away the flies intent on making his life miserable now that his pasture mate is no longer with him. They can’t stand head to tail in nature’s equation to provide relief from those pesky flies. For now, he is just happy to no longer have his feet buried in snow or mud.
In the distance a rooster crows. Mine answers. Both of them. I don’t know why I don’t find their noise annoying as others do. I relish the cacophony of the coop, the hens squawking aloud their latest lay, the roosters’ scuffles for the nearest hen’s attention. Even at five o’clock in the morning, or four, or three, it is music to my ears. Much preferred than the artificial buzz from the dim half-light of a face full of numbers, little soldiers marching in time, always marching, always on time, around and around and around. Never taking the time to stop. To feel. To listen.
Life is sweet. On this day. In this place.