At the equinox, we hike the low mountain.
We laugh and kid and make noise beside the river
that leads up the forested path from a sky-
blue pool. The river rejoices in the sound
of bubbling frolics--intoxicates, but still
we ignore the jubilation; we are not quiet.
We mount the trail up from the quiet
valley, away from the incense of mountain
pine and wild flower. Unseen, unstill,
a microscopic rug of life in river
and on bank teems in clanging crescendo. But sound
does not escape the underfoot mat to the sky,
carapace over canopy and us--the sky,
obscured, except a gap above the quiet
wood. The grade steepens, our breath the rhythmic sound
inside our chests. Our hearts pound against the mountain
surface as the rocks speak in the silver river
that drops beneath our consciousness, and we climb still
higher. We pause to rest and the brisk air seems still
because we do not hear ourselves and now the sky
is only partly hidden--and the river
is far away and forgotten in the quiet
of leafless spring trees on the mountain
height. Nearing the peak we do not notice sound.
Yet something is missing. There is no sound.
No wind, no motor. No movement in the still
valley. Scrambling up the bald top of the mountain,
we pause, hold our breath. No cloud in the sky,
at last above our heads. A perfect blue quiet.
Fifty miles in two directions, the river
shines. No insects buzzing. We realize the river
rumbles. We take in the collective sound
of water molecules bumping into our quiet
cocoon. Eyes closed, on stone we lie still
and listen to early morning sun and sky.
No human. No creature. No volume. No mountain.
We snap the still concentration and leave the sky
hanging above the mountain and river.
We hear sound and absorb quiet.

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All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Fri, Apr 29, 2000.