Mining the Silence of the Stones
(Sun Series #7)
At the time when white ashes are turning all shades but green, the massive white oak in the pasture shows no hints of its crimson glory. That will come in time with sun and frost. But it’s now I hear the music start, voices in close harmony, and want to find them and slip into the dimensions of such perfect sound. On a Sunday morning just after sunrise, a coyote strides across campus thinking she’s alone (but for the rabbits).
Can you see her?
I hear the voices again and let them carry me on the breeze that song dog is sniffing as she follows the edge of thick brambles beside a long green field where later that day (thirty years ago), I come upon two teams of women in rugby tangles and long wild runs when the ball flies, the players as strong and tough and beautiful as the rampant blackberries I’ve been picking up in the hills west of town. My fingers sticky purple with juice and blood, the music picks up its pace.