As I sit here at the table, enjoying the last of my cup of coffee, I’m surrounded by the quiet sounds of a typical spring morning on the homestead.
Even through the thick cabin walls I hear the sweet song of hermit thrushes, newly arrived this morning (see A Shy Summer Neighbor: The Hermit Thrush). They’ve joined the local chorus, which at the moment includes, among others, ruby crowned kinglets, varied thrushes, and, also new today, Swainson’s thrushes.
There’s no wind, so the cacophony of the sea lions at their Gran Point haul-out, across Lynn Canal, carries clearly across the miles. Their fishing season goes well, with an early run of eulachon and the herring moving through, so they’re excited.
In the cabin, I hear the gentle drip of the water filter, and the tick of the banked fire in the wood stove. The wine jugs burble softly.
Over all, rain falls and drips from the trees, drumming quietly on the metal roof.
None of this is particularly remarkable—it’s more the rule here than its exception (see Listening to Silence and Morning and Me). But, it’s all too easy to grow accustomed to it. To take it for granted.
I need to make sure that I appreciate it more often for the rare gift it is.