Strictly speaking, there is never a silent moment. The wind (and I say wind because it does not help that it is Spring, a season of gentle breezes) whistles through the trees and against brick buildings like an angry storm.
On a cool afternoon such as this, I can see the Charles River, calm and lazy, the light pink woods reflecting off its bluish green glassy surface. The weather is so clear that I can see even the tiny wavelets lapping about. But the wind never stops blowing. It sounds like a storm lost it’s way into Spring and is scraping itself through the trees, trying to remain hidden. And by the looks of it, Spring flowers are quite strong. I don’t know how, but they manage to cling onto their stalks for dear life when the wind begins to blow like there is no tomorrow.
Lying on the carpet all night, listening to the wind screaming outside through snow-white blossom on Spring trees, I imagine the quick urgency being drowned by the quiet, unhurried whisper of a warm breath brushing my ears.