And So It Begins

 "First Signs", by Alan S. Garrett

"First Signs", by Alan S. Garrett

A slight breeze rattles the last of the dead leaves clinging to wintered limbs, even as the water and nutrients within begin to flow. Among the stems of the plum thickets, a maroon hue already grows.

Across the fields of dead grass and dry earth the tiniest stands of grass begin to turn green. Life begins already to return to the spring and summer flora, even as winter’s stranglehold attempts to keep so much of its livelihood underground. It all seems too early, even the flock of geese spotted heading north.

I've been trying to understand this noise that’s been present both night and day here for some time. I pause the audio recording that I am using to sample the outdoor environment with, and I open a spectrum analyzer using this device’s mics to attempt to see what I hear in a visualized form.

The low frequency sound is stronger today; though usually I’ve been inside a home late at night when I’ve noticed it before. Perhaps it comes from the sand mining pit many miles away or some other type of industry, one that I know not of; who knows. The presence of this sound when the winds don’t blow is annoying at times, as pulses and hums seemingly 24 hours a day. One can get so used to it at times that one is reminded only by its absence when what ever powers it fails from time to time. But I digress, as this brief section of commentary distracts from enjoying this beautiful morning.

Some form of insect skims across the surface of the pond, followed by others, as if it, too, senses the growing season’s early risers have already been set in motion. I pause the audio once again and set myself to attempting to record 4K video of their joyful behavior for posterity before closing the camera app and restarting the audio recorder in the background, finally returning to writing. (I’ve taken to recording the sound of the environment I write within from time to time. It’s an interesting asset to have when trying to recall context.) Moments like these are to be recognized for what they are: gifts that don’t last forever.

The winds begin to pick up, gunshots begin to echo across the lands, and birds have also started to sing with a little more volume than before. Perhaps they’ve become more comfortable to my being here, in this location.

The nightly news often leaves me feeling as though these moments don’t happen somewhere every day, and perhaps moments like these are more rare than I even know.  But at least for this moment, here in the forest, by a pond, even as nearby gunshots ring out for target practice, and as some generator of some type bathes the countryside in whatever the noise is, the troubles of the world seem so far away.

There is so much to be thankful for, especially here. Worry and fear, negativity and the promotion thereof is such a waste of all the gifts life’s given. I sometimes wish I had more to give back than words, but for now, it’s what I can do.