I stepped outside before the storm into a dead calm, a calm dripping with
humidity. The sky was a rosy red, not the screeching red warning to sailors
but a rose of finest hue only dreamed of. The stillness of the day was also
rare, not a leaf of the acres of corn moved. The stillness was penetrated by
the deep roar of the surf miles away. The roar of the ocean was out-shouted
by a million crickets. No birds flew, no birds sang, why should they?
There was a storm forecast for the afternoon, this was the quiet before.
The following day found the birds' voices returned. Still not loud enough to
soar above the song of the cricket's, they were loud enough to overshadow a
much quieted rush of ocean waves on sand. There were no special sky colors to
rhapsodize, there was just a blue that relaxed the nerves, those that were tensed
before the storm.
Sometimes it is what is to come that inhibits, not that which is. We anticipate
a fear and it becomes real. Quieted by our bird-hearts, we hide from something we
do not know, and might never learn.