19 March, 2001
These have been some spectacular nights to not hear anything. The winds are gone and the skies unobstructed. Nothing hoots or sings. Nothing crashes through the brush. Nothing howls from distant lakes. Venus is leaving our sky, casting a long streak of light as it sets, a spotlight for someone else now. The north glows with a new aurora. It grows, sends fluid ribbons skyward, and then fades. Somewhere beneath it, the embers of Sam McGee's funeral pyre crackle in the night.
It is a trade-off. My ears are ready but know that winter is being defined before my eyes. Breathe it, absorb it, and the sounds will come.
And while winter locks the landscape, ever so slowly, spring tugs at it. Sunlight warms the back roads and they grow soft, pulling your vehicle where you don't want to go. Streams begin their renewal, gurgling almost imperceptibly. Aspen buds grow fat and sap drips from the maples. Each night a crust is formed atop the snow, and each day it is gone.
You sense the rush of life to come, but are okay without it.
© W.H. Lane