The sun passes overhead without a sound. Monk Ki looks at his shadow and thinks that to move that much mass so quietly is a pretty neat trick. He can’t even sit still without the sound of his breathing catching his attention.
Weeds start growing and they don’t make a sound. Later they might rattle their seed husks to denote their demise.
It’s a talent to go through life without making a sound. I haven’t done that thought Monk Ki. I’ve blustered and wailed, cried and belched. I’ve complained louder than the wind coming out of a hurricane. I turn on some recording just to drown out the sound of my thinking. I relish the sound of meat sizzling in a hot pan and the gurgle of milk sloshing into a glass. I’ve listened to countless beers opened with a whoosh.
His shadow sits on the warm rock not making a sound. Overhead a hawk whistles.
It’s just spring.