Friday, May 2, 2025, 42.9* Overcast
Soleil has not extinguished the candles in my windows; she has been known to let them burn all day. Outside things are dripping; the three came in wet, not dripping, now dried, back in their beds. All is quiet. Not a bird in sight. No glimpse of beaver; maybe someone did trap them. Last year early mornings or late evenings I sometimes would see them. I’m not sure the lodge lies within the boundaries of this land.
I wonder if people in Atlanta know quiet mornings. Would they be startled by the silence? By not seeing another house? Could they sleep without traffic noise? Without sirens? Would they panic, turn on all the lights? Perhaps they would wish to linger like me, an escapee from Atlanta lodged in a hollow; a wild land riddled with gullies frequently washed.
Rather, I have stilled my soul,
like a weaned child to its mother,
weaned is my soul.
Psalm 131:2 NAB (Revised Edition)
Photo: LJ Austin
