Snowmelt made me do it.
I’ve slowed on one writing project, while speeding up on another. So, in a search for language, I’m attempting a new exercise for mental prompts.
I’m focusing on one sense after another, in an attempt to make my synapses fire in new ways.
It began with the sounds of spring.
I was trying to ignore my other senses so I could listen, truly listen, to spring.
The stream in our woods was swollen with all the recent rain, and water was tumbling over rocks and old logs and tangles of dead leaves in a torrent. It was far more subdued in winter.
This was the sound of spring, you know, just as much as the taste of a fresh, real strawberry is the taste of summer.
A tiny rivulet of water cracked and snapped, seeping out of the forest floor. It brought such a musical note to the forest, that I leaned close to listen.
I moved on to birdsong, the peeps and cheeps of tiny nuthatches and juncoes rustling in the woods. They were entertaining us, popping out of the trees to sing so close to the trail that we could see the vibration of song in their throats.
Just as I was focusing my mind on those sounds, trying to find the words to capture their song, a loud whoosh like a fan sounded overhead.
It was two mallards cruising in for a splashy landing on the pond, so sudden and unexpected, that it confounded my search for accuracy in language.
I’m grateful for the chance to just listen, in luxury, to all that nature offers, without settling on just the right words. I’m keenly grateful for the sounds of spring.