I sit on rim of the world, the edge of a cornfield, and only hear wind in corn.
October rustles leaves of the dead still standing. Dead leaves, thousands, touch, bows across strings, make music like water running, water falling on stones, the rattling of the bones. Tassels, dried and brown, bow. Grey clouds track low, heading east. Leaves withered dry sing hymns of living water in autumn’s chapel and I find my place. All the lost pieces find their place.
The silence and the song exhilarate. I can feel their coursing; the tingle to the tips, the rush.
Strands of hair fly on chorus.
There is a noise to the world and it is not the flickering screens of cyber chatter, the bing of inboxes, the intones of phones.
I listen to wind in corn.
Nothing in all creation is so like God
as stillness
~Meister Eckhart
Photos: our sea of corn behind the house
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