Sometimes silence roars

The day starts with the sound of blue jays mobbing a crow. When the crow gets tired of being the mobbee, he spies a Cooper’s hawk, calls the rest of his family in, and becomes the mobber.

Shrieking and cawing, the crows drive the hawk away, then find another project and take their cacophony with them.

The songbirds take over, singing their early anthems, checking the feeders, scolding the humans behind the glass. Dave goes out to fill the feeders before he eats his own breakfast and, if he has shoes on, brings the hose around and fills the fountain and the birdbath.

If we could have only one item for the birds in our woodsy backyard, it would be the fountain with water recirculating from a shallow basin up through a frog’s mouth. We found one at a “seconds” yard art sale and it has provided us more pleasure than it does the birds.

Birds love to splash in water, especially water that trickles or cascades. Nearly every bird that visits our feeders also takes a dip, coming or going. Oddly, robins love the fountain, but do not come to our feeders.

Really, if Dave doesn’t keep the water full, it will be gone before noon. Robins plunge straight in, flapping wings and raising a sparkling shower over head and back. After jumping up on the rim to shake, they move into a nearby tree to preen their feathers. Just about the moment the song sparrows, thrashers, and cardinals decide it’s their turn, the robin looks back at the fountain, plops himself down in the water to start the whole regimen over again without so much as an “Excuse me, please.”

But I digress. On his way out the door to scatter cracked corn, Dave punches on the stereo and WABE’s first of six hours of music floods the house. Not loud, just enough to keep up with the news and celebrate Puccini’s birthday by playing his music all day. Every day is somebody’s birthday, after all.

The day goes on: A few phone calls. Microsoft’s little arpeggio that lets me know it’s ready to go to work. The rattle of newspaper pages turning. The gurgle of the coffeemaker. The whine of the tree service next door. And so the day goes, building in a crescendo through leaf blowers and gas-powered golf carts to traffic on Peachtree Parkway, emergency sirens, the whistle from the CSX line, helicopters over our roof in flight from the Fire Department Station 1 to the hospital.

These are the sounds that form the backdrop of our lives.

Last week we discovered the calendar had only a few meetings to cancel, so we drove to Lake Eufaula at the head of which is Lake Point Resort and Marina where our boat lives. It was a stunning Friday, so we were prepared for bass boats and PWCs all over the lake. (That’s “personal water craft” to the uninitiated.)

We waved at fishermen, mostly families, grandpas with youngsters on spring break, and slowed down so as not to spill anyone into the water. They were properly dressed in life jackets (PFDs these days), the result of good PSAs (public service announcements) as well as strict ticketing by law officers of the DNR (Department of Natural Resources) of Alabama and Georgia.

Enough digression. The little boats were off the water before dark, and there are few “campers” like us on these lakes. We found a cove where Dave used to drop anchor when he was sailing here years ago. Several small islands and some rows of bald cypress stabilize banks and warn boaters of shallow water – the isles almost form a labyrinth through which you must navigate to find the center.

We ate a light supper, took quick showers with our new sun-shower bag, and as the temperature dropped, we crawled into our bunks, pulling doubled blankets up over our shoulders.

The stillness on this night was in sharp contrast to the windy nights it followed. Oddly, there were no birds here, big birds, I mean, like the great blue herons with their incessant squawking, and the high-decibel conversations of Canada geese swimming along with their chicks on a string between them.

Despite the second quarter moon, it was a dark night. When I got up about 2 a.m., I was also struck by its silence. Silence is so rare a commodity that it is no longer simply the absence of sound.

So it was on that night. We’re usually glad for a chorus of frogs and tolerant of distant road traffic, but this night lacked any sound whatsoever. It was as though a giant bell had been placed over this corner of the lake, then all sound sucked out before it was sealed.

I shivered my way back under my blankets and for awhile sleep eluded me. I found myself listening for a sound, any sound, and there was none. The only time I remember such profound silence was in the days following Sept. 11, 2001, when no airplanes flew and many people stayed home watching the news.

On this night, even the wind was still and there was no sound of wavelets lapping the boat’s hull. The flag hung motionless, silent. I could tell Dave was awake too by the silence of his breathing.

If a tree fell in a forest…. If a fish broke the surface of a silent lake….

Sometimes silence fairly roars.