Thursday, March 12, 2009


Listen. Can you hear it? Over there, in the patch of sunlight. That's right, the bowl covered with a towel. Can you hear it yet? Put your head closer. Hold your breath. Listen. Thousands of tiny bubbles, heavy and viscous, are growing. Hear them fizz. Hear them pop. It's the sound of bread rising.

Out in the garden, dusk. All is quiet. No cars drive past; no neighbours chat. All is still. Can you hear it? The damp rustle? The wet crunch? So soft you can only just catch it? It can't be - it isn't - it is: caterpillars. Caterpillars on the lettuce, caterpillars on the chard, chewing their way through the leaves. So many, they form the evening's gentle undertone.

Just last week - did you hear it? What was it? The lounge room swayed, the crockery rattled, an infinitely deep rumble and it was over in a second. Sound so low, more felt than heard. The earth groaned, and rippled, and shook. So quick, so soft, did you hear it too?

Where is the still small voice? So quiet, it's carried on a gentle breeze; so low, it's more felt than heard? What does it say? Can you hear it?

Bend your head. Still your breath. Close your eyes.


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