15° F, feels like 5° F. Winter.
Gazing out the window with Haight: “How is it that the snow amplifies the silence…”
Fox, with its long bushy tail, glances right furtively, tip toes through the snow and disappears.
Finches flutter to the feeders, feed, then flit away. Seeds darken the fresh snow below.
A shovel scrapes a driveway down the street, scarring the silence of the morning. Plows awaken in the distance, cold steel to asphalt, teeth on tin foil.
Oil heat courses through the veins of the house, warming. (Families, less than 50 miles away in the boroughs, huddle to warm, thermostats turned down, working to make budget.)
Hallway is dark. Nest sits Empty. Baby birds have fled, away, way away. They sleep now, in their own nests, warm, safe, with puffs of slow breaths. My hand reaches to take his hand, her hand, to feel her pulse, his pulse; to feel the beat of her heart, his heart. Both created as I was, from what? To what?
Winds gust, whisking snow crystals into small drifts.
I twist in ear buds, first right and then left, and tune in Icelandic acoustics.
I crawl back into bed and drift – a release into the sacred silence of Sunday morning, and the slow tug of something Deep calling to Deep, and something unfathomable whispering: “Hush”.