Almost

I move closer to decipher the sound. It is the wind blowing across the lips of the morning moistened by melting frost. It speaks in whispers. My footsteps seem loud and echo along the walls of the laneway before breaking out into the bright sunshine. I would like to be silence, a blank medium on which every note of the morning is written, cupped to pick up the slightest sound, the breath of sparrow as it passes near, the rustle of a moth folding back its powdery wings and the pop of a bubble bursting on the still waters of a pond. There are countless symphonies being played that ripple across this absolute quiet, songs to ease a tear from my old eyes that I can almost…almost hear.