The air was so still
I heard the trees exhale their
fine, fresh oxygen
It is not often during my morning walks along the Pacific Ocean that there is no sound at all.
The seals, or sea lions, I don’t know which but hundreds of them, out on Castle Rock usually choire it to high heavens to be heard for miles; or the tide breaks most emphatically crushing the water into glee or protest, I don’t know which; or the gulls cry or the smaller birds twitter or chase me away with abusive bird language when I stray too close to their by-the-side-of-the-road nests; there always the occasional car—never too many, though, perhaps one every few minutes or so even during a weekday’s “rush hour” (there is no rush hour in my little town).
Never completely silent.
Then this morning—and of course I realize that this was my mind tricking itself—dead quiet: you could hear air molecules, enticed by gravity, hitting and bumping their heads on the tarmac. I could hear the sunlight strike the flowers in the field. I could hear the mist out there over the marsh sigh as it reached for the no-longer-visible Milky Way.
And I heard the trees breathe.