from the Ninth Wave Arts caretakers

We watched the turkeys the other day as they ran proudly across the newly snow-covered field.

There were twelve in total, each seeming to race from the big cedar to the big pine and back again, as if passing messages from one tree to the other. Close on their tails came the herd of deer that take over the liminal hours once the snow settles—deer o’clock. These deer feel as though they have been wintering on this land long before there was a field to greet them. Generations living their stories with the trees, recognizing the quiet beauty of what this land has to offer.

And then there are the trees themselves, laden with heavy snow, carrying the weight without complaint—though every so often, shaking themselves free with a great shudder.

This is the silent time of year, when the gift of snow softens the passing cars on the road and dampens the sounds of human activity. A practice of silence, taught by the season itself.

Later that evening, the coyotes can be heard, travelling the same forest highways as their deer and turkey kin. Their yips and howls greet the great silence, and there is a wondering if they, too, appreciate the space to bring their gifts forward—to set the soundscape for the coming night. There is listening.
Silence allows the space for their sound to be heard, and their sound, in turn, deepens the return of silence.

The great exchange between silence and sound—the space where all potential arises, and the expression of that potential.

The coyotes call again, and there is a sense that these same thoughts are shared—held in common, though carried with far more generational practice in their bones.

And together, there is a moment to thank the snow.