Eavesdropping On the Dawn

Donning my shorts and walking shoes, I step outside and head east. The hot summer sun silently rises as a canopy of gold, bright amid the blue, bidding the stars to take their daily rest. Darkness surrenders, every color changing from tinges of charcoal to a vibrancy. Ahead of me is a small thicket. I pause before entering, eavesdropping on the dawn—the sound of crickets in the grasses and undergrowth, the sound of sunlight on my skin, the sound of a flower bud opening giving its vibrant hued petals to my eyes. The low-lying trees are tiny dancing ladies, each in dresses more beautiful than any designer can craft. They are the life and soul of this early summer morning, moving quietly and graciously choreographed by the wind in perfect time with one another. The birds in the sky are music for my eyes, also moving in choreographed melody. Amid the trees, is a pebbled path. I follow it as it threads its way toward nearby tree-covered hills. Here in the forest, the humid summer air is heavy with noise. Crickets and locusts stridulate so loudly that the air vibrates with their calls. Clear, flutelike birdsongs ring out between the rhythmic chirps of unseen frogs, pounding out a steady beat. Something scratches faintly in the undergrowth as water droplets from last night’s rain patter onto leaves. I ease myself onto an old tree stump and close my eyes listening to the eaves dance to an unheard beat, whispering their songs to the wind. I come to this forest for rest, for serenity that flows like cool river waters, and for inspiration. There is something about the sparkle upon the blue, a melody without a rhythm, music without sound. I sit contentedly and eavesdrop, listening to the silent sound of a living universe heard more by the soul than the ears. When I write, when the words begin forming clusters, sentences, and paragraphs, it is this silent music of the universe and the Grand Conductor that guide my pen orchestrating the outcome.