All the days are quiet. Noise comes from the whine of snow machines, and the baying of dogs. There is a frequent hum from the electrical generator. The snow plow passes through town on snow days. Distant prop planes fly over. Occasional jets pass thousands of feet above leaving behind a dull roar and the twice weekly NAC attack gets our attention.
But there is no traffic. No sirens. No loud music. No music. No loud voices. No booming bass. No skate boards. Few things hijack peace.
Yesterday, when Margie walked in front of us, stopping to complain about her mean cousin, she talked in a hushed voice. I had my hood up and couldn’t hear much. But we all understand feuds and the need to explain our side of the story. As aliens to this town, we have the perfect ears for gossip. We have the perfect ears to hear the lack of noise. Snow dampens everything, maybe even feuds.
This is why I get up hours before Terry. The solitude, the soundlessness. The loft is mine. Warm and low ceilinged. With my journal and coffee.
The verisimilitude of a simple life. Waiting for Terry to wake with no hurry in mind. From my perch, breakfast is always made below, warm oatmeal and Terry claiming my loneliness.
Mountain Peace 