Not far from here the traffic cuts erratically through silence thick and cool, parts it like a fog and leaves a hissing wake whose pitch increases just before it closes in.
But here, here the quiet seems intrinsic to the water, elemental of the air that holds these heavy clouds and of the slowly falling mists whose whispers sweep across the surface stirring imperceptibly reflections of their kin above. Here the calm is born of deeper things arising from constituents of rains that fell before we had our names, currents filtered through the ice and soil filling over ages this impression on the earth.
The trees that lean here at the bank perhaps know more than I, touching as they do the water’s edge, peering to the depth of sky reflected in the smoked patina of untroubled shelves where sediments take rest. And as they grow above their shaded likenesses a ripple in the water breaks their truth, but they don’t waver. They watch as still as ever til the surface settles, rooted in the placid water none of us can see.
We only see the images our mirrors tend to give us. We only hear the calm when something tears it, and it seems to be too burdensome to fix. But here the mirror ebbs and swells with megrims of the weather, never quite the same as when I looked a breath ago. Here the silence bides by breezes carried through the branches, painting abstract truths on my assumptions with slightest wave it makes.
And here the traffic shatters nothing.