Yesterday, I held Fall around me. Today I woke to the claims of November and the Winter to come, a day raw, windy, grey-wrapped, stern, unapologetic.

The change sent me back to my notes from a couple of days ago, gathered in the contrast-space between the company of the visiting friend, departed, and the me left to my surroundings again—the re-finding that any solitary person goes through in the transition from company to none.

This is the picture I thought I’d paint for you today. An inventory of sound, the unexpected reflection of where I am; a part of the what that makes me what I am. Seemed a right thing to remember on a day like this one.

From my seat with the view of the river, serenity is quiet. But not silent.

I hear the last of the season’s insects, a high, brittle song that will fall ominously still as the temperature falls.

I hear the chatter of a complaining bird, unhappy about something. A flutter of wings.

I hear the wind ruffling the trees; hear it trailing along the hollows of the hills.

The leaves as they touch earth; the crisp, brittle sound as the breeze tumbles them.

A hickory nut bouncing down the roofline.

The muffled bark of a distant dog.

The sleeping cat snuffling at my knee.

The settling of a beam, deep within a wall.

The dignified tick of the hall-clock’s pendulum.

The single deep, singing note from the front wind chime, touched by a breeze from a new direction.

Crows. A white-throated sparrow trilling “Oh Canada”.

The ripple of the river, muted. A splash in the river.

And the sound of my breathing, of my fingers on the keys. The sound of a woman smiling.

All there is. All there needs to be.