I have the house all to myself today. This blessed quiet. The only sound is the faintest tick, tick of the grandfather clock until it clicks as the overture to singing its seven musical notes telling me that thirty minutes have passed.
The floorboards sound a weak creak as I move over them to go upstairs. The only interruption to the thump, thump, thump of my heavy shoes is the squeaking of some of the treads. I shouldn’t disturb the silence of the house so.
When I reach my room on the second floor, everything has hushed so the only sound is of two clocks, each making the slightest mechanical “tuh, tuh, tuh” marking the passage of each second. This soothing rhythm invites me to sit a while in the rocking chair which creaks faintly under my weight in our back and forth motion.
It isn’t long before even these whisperings fade, yielding silence. Only then do I notice them, fall’s golden leaves fluttering to the ground.
Wasn’t it only just a few weeks ago that they were all energetic, youthful green clustered together at their summer party high above me? Now they’re in their prime look-at-me color. But that is fleeting.
Soon, the limbs will be stripped bare and only the trees essence will remain. Some think this is a time of dormancy, rest, but I know differently. Soon, the trees will face darkness, fierce cold and buffeting winds. In silence, they will grow stronger, and I’ll be able to see what they are made of before spring’s song sounds again.
© Lynn Wyvill 2011