
DK @ Daybreak. 6:44 am, April 3, 2022. 38° F. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT. More photos from this morning here.
I can't sleep…

DK @ Daybreak. 6:44 am, April 3, 2022. 38° F. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT. More photos from this morning here.

It all started with Thursday’s post, Lightly Child, Lightly. Where Cole Arthur Riley writes: “Have you ever stood in the presence of a tree and listened to the wind pass through its leaves? The roots and body stand defiant and unmoved. But listen. The branches stretch out their tongues and whisper shhhhh. Trees make symphonies without their trunks ever moving, almost as if the stillness of their centers amplifies their sound.”
This post triggered a number of comments.
Beth, a school teacher, teaches me what that sound is: “I so love it too and there is a word for it: psithurism. These sounds of wind in the trees and the rustling of leaves have enchanted so many people over time that they invented a word to describe them: psithurism. Like many words that begin with “ps,” the “p” at the beginning of psithurism is silent, and the word is pronounced sith-err-iz-um.”
Lori, follows by sharing: “I, too, am mesmerized by this sound (and now know what to call it…thank you, Beth!) This passage brought to mind Suzanne Simard’s book, ‘Finding the Mother Tree.’ So much happening below the surface…
Mimi then shares: “The symphony of sound from the trees, sounds that change with the type of leaf that is singing – another gift from Mother Nature. The differences can be subtle, and demand your attention if you’re fortunate enough to stop and listen. Beth taught us both something today – never heard of the word, and I love the way it sounds – its pronunciation is perfect for its definition!”
Caitlin, here next door in NY State, furthers my education. “My favorite sound — wind through pine trees — happy memories of Northern Ontario summer camp…The verb for the sound is soughing.” I had to google it. A Verb: soughing (of the wind in trees, the sea, etc.) make a moaning, whistling, or rushing sound. ‘the soughing of the wind in the canopy of branches’.
Kevin, in Concord, CA, “likes sitting under an overhang and listening to rain (and wind) hitting the various leaves in my back garden. We also have a hammock for sitting between trees and watching the leaves rustle in the wind.”
Doug’s favorite soothing sound “is the sound of water in a stream burbling over rocks” and he wonders “if there is a specific word for that sound, too.”
Anneli has “stood under black cottonwoods in Montana and made a little video of the leaves whispering very loudly as the wind passed through the trees. A memorable experience.”
Dale, once again, dropping 10-letter words requiring me to wear a dictionary on my hip to decipher: “I often stand amongst the trees and love the sound. Psithurism from marcescent leaves, particularly. Those leaves, usually oak, that remain on the trees in the winter have a particular sound.”
And for me, I’m with all of you. Wind through the trees, branches, leaves. Listening to rain. Sitting in hammocks. Stream burbling over rocks.
And yet, there’s one other sound of notable mention. Continue reading “I’m going to remember this.”
7/ 3/ 54. I keep myself going with various kinds of dope: books, written and read, dreams, hopes, crossword puzzles, the sentimentality of friendships, and real friendships, and simply routine.
— Patricia Highsmith, “Patricia Highsmith: Her Diaries and Notebooks: 1941-1995.″ Anna von Planta (Editor). (Liveright, November 16, 2021)— Patricia Highsmith, Her Diaries and Notebooks: 1941-1995
Notes:
6:10 a.m.
Dark. 12° F, feels like Nasty. Wind cuts through all the layers. Shiver.
I’m driving down Weed Avenue, eyes scan The Cove.
When she’s here, even in the blackest of Nights, there’s no missing that White Coat, those 25,000 feathers, that Beacon.
“Sadness, I need your black White wing.” (PN*)
I drive on, now 500 yards from the park.
There!
I pull off the highway, grab the camera, and approach.
I offer her a soft, short whistle.
She pops her head up, “Hey there Mister, All Good Here.”
Then, she tucks her head back under her wing, and back to sleep.
I pause watching her for a moment, and then glance up at Polaris, shimmering overhead.
Yes, O.K. All good here too.
This World can keep on, keep spinning on its axis.
Notes:
5:35 a.m.
Dark. Wet. Rain. 43° F. I pan through the hour by hour Weather Channel Forecast:
5 am: “Light rain.”
6 am: “Light rain.”
7 am: “Light rain.”
8 am: “Light rain.”
and so on, hourly until 7 pm.
“Wintry mix likely for the next several hours.”
I sit up in bed. No chance, you are going out in that.
Mind drifts to my Swan. She’s out there. Rain, raining down on her coat.
I google ‘swans’ to find Biology of Swans. “Swans have about 25,000 feathers on their body – the vast majority of these are tiny, little feathers situated round the head and neck.”
Somehow this puts me at ease. For a moment.
25,000 feathers must keep her warm, as she dives to feed in the frigid waters of The Cove. She can’t be cold. She can’t be hungry. 25,000 feathers.
I pull the covers up, and close my eyes. Damn it. I need to get to The Cove. Continue reading “Walking. Swan-less.”