It rained
during the day yesterday. The morning is thick and grey. Even so, the birds.
I have been so bound up in my work I have not been paying very good attention to the world around me. Tulips have bloomed along the garage; the peonies have bushed out and set heads. Flowers have bloomed and faded along the house. I rise and work at my desk, shower and go to work, come and work at my desk some more. All work and no play makes Tom very dull indeed.
So - this is what it feels like to have nothing to say. You go to the well, the well is dry. A dusty road of a brain, a few flies buzzing, looking for moisture, the sun baking everything to the same dull brown.
The pond is rippled with wind this morning. Everything is littered with silver maple seed pods and as you watch more of them spin their way to the ground. They are like cold weather butterflies in the breeze.
In the gutter along Washington Street there is a place the wind has sorted the seed pods into a pile. Now they move in unison, like a little tan animal.
The flag at the cemetery doesn't know its business - it flaps this way and that, mostly towards the northeast, it is wrapped at least once around the flag pole and is shortened up by that much.
The firewood that was the hawk tree has been hauled away; all that remains is some brush and a circle of grass where the tree's shadow had been.
The clouds have a seriousness about them: this will be a dark day. The freshly worked soil is deep blue-black in this light. The earth shrugs and says it means business.
Sometimes when you have nothing to say, you say the most. Just stop and then start from where you are.
Love the dinkle donk line in the post below.
Posted by: colleen | May 22, 2007 at 11:34 AM
Thanks, Colleen. The "nothing" of silence is like the space between the notes. It keeps us from cacophony, I think.
Posted by: Tom Montag | June 14, 2007 at 11:04 AM