by Whitney Wolf

Walking through the woods, the sound coming off my snowshoes echoes through the snow-laden trees as a cacophony of sound in this otherwise still setting. I arrive at my destination; the edge of the ice flows within the Basin. Here, I stop. It takes a few moments, but the silence of nature finally catches up with me. As I stand, I reorient my senses to the quiet. In this silence, as I focus, there is more.


As my breath subsides, it gives way to the wind moving through the pines along the shoreline; somewhere over the horizon, the all-so subtle hum of a lobster boat; along the distance of the shore, there are cracks and moans from the ice as it strains against the tide. A raven beckons from the other side, echoing across the fractured landscape.


Further still, in the quiet, is the tickling of water as it frees itself from a crystalized realm. In this place, I can hear the creak of my leather, the patter of a light rain upon my warm fur-lined hat, and there, even deeper within- a heartbeat, blending with the symphony of silence.


“Out of the bosom of the Air,/ Out of the Clouds-folds of garments shaken,/ Over the Woodlands brown and bare,/ Over the harvest-fields forsaken,/ Silent, and, soft, and slow/ descends the snow.” –Henry Wadsworth Longfellow