Saturday, April 17, 2010
A writing retreat of silence and solitude. Hardly. It's far from silent and I'm certainly not alone. Between the companionship of the trees, the calls of the birds, the tap of the woodpeckers, the eagle and hawk sightings, the ever-changing laps of the baywater, the leaping out of the mullet, the hatching of the jellyfish, the creeping of the crabs, the puffing up of the lizards, the purring of the wind, my steps in the dry grass, the beating of birdwings, the waving of the leaves, the drooping of the Spanish moss, the rising and setting of the sun and moon, the passing of the clouds, the late night booms over the bay, whatever they are, I can begin to understand why native American people didn't speak much. They were so busy watching, listening, interpreting. dkm
p.s. If you're interested, I've added photos to yesterday's post about the live oak tree and to April 13's post about the bald eagle.