An earache cure has muted
the world. Starlings in masses pass overhead, unheard. The river deep makes
silent waves. Soundless leaves shake from voiceless trees. Only a recoil crack
of corrugated roof, a panel loosed in the night's storm, pierces the taciturn
pod. Down by the water the wind blows darkly.
The old quarry wall is comprised, though it won't fall entirely for years yet.
It's shale underfoot and could easily drop a lone walker into the rain swell of
river. It is enough, today, to lose a familiar sense, adjust to a world with
quieted starling hordes. The other path is trod, up and up, step by steep step,
cumbersomely clambered, over the leaves that dropped, up while the wind blows
the cloud over the valley, up to a mossed rock. Legs and ears at rest, eyes and
brain roam the valley, the canopy, the lifting sky, a strangely melancholic
riverbank.
Adjustments; the river flow represents; the altered path, the world without
noise. There will always be things to be missed, always progression, and each
of us is a tiny anchor, to hold what is good, to let the tide take the rest.
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