THERE
ARE TIMES in our bustling
little town
When
it’s
quiet. Very quiet.
Not
often, I wish it more.
It
usually appears at end
of day,
Or
very early morning
When
people are settled in,
No
cars or trains running
about.
The
onshore flow, like a
silent shadow,
Pulls
in the fog
Like
a soft, cozy blanket
That
muffles the highway
drone away.
Most
of all, I only hear
the surf,
That
sweet music of Mother
Ocean
Brushing
her kisses upon our
shores
And
gently calling to our
souls.
Rhythmically,
as if a siren song
Whispered
from a distance.
Then
a wren warbling one
closing bar of music,
Or
maybe it was a flycatcher,
From
a Torrey Pine or that
acacia there,
A
distinct, delicate
trill I hadn’t
noticed before.
Clear,
punctuated in the still
evening air.
Was
that a moth just winging
by?
In
the fading distance
a dog barks out
His
evening goodbyes
To
anyone lucky enough
to listen.
A
distant clink of glass,
A
child’s
laugh,
A
door swings shut,
Then
quiet. It’s
near.
In
Del Mar
Quiet
smells like the ocean,
Shy.
Invisible.
But
it’s
there.
I
can only hear it if
I hold my breath
And
just listen
For
the drip of dew from
a leaf nearby.
