we're absolutely haunted by the presence of hayrolls here on the rim. every field has dozens either dotting it or lined up along 1 end--usually closest to the road--and there is a field every other mile. this time of year the hay smells of sweet decay, the scent of mouldering books and the tar or pitch or whatever it is that coats twine these days. the tang blends too with the odor of woodsmoke, oak or cherry or cedar or pine, that wafts off the roofs of farmhouses we pass.
when I walk my dogs this time of year I have to be ready for the sudden snap of wind that slaps me at the tops of hills until my face feels flayed. I'm taking a course in buddhism now, which is like drinking coffee with an old friend, and getting back into practice as much as I can. I practice tai chi most mornings and meditate while walking. but the monkeymind--the name zen writers give to the ceaseless roil that's in our minds--in me is strong. one is supposed to turn off monkeymind but I don't think mine has ever even slowed down. it's like a springfed stream in me, constantly refreshing and splashing and bubbling and babbling. I try to let it go by without focussing on it and sometimes that works and sometimes it is a woodpecker knocking against the walls of my brain.
I don't live in silence much--I have the radio on all the time in my car and in the house, and even when I'm walking with the dogs I have a constant litany of 1 or 2 songs rumbling through my head. today it was this tune, altho why I couldn't tell you. there's also the roar of the wind across the snow and the crows and the faroff trainwhistle to the north and the rumble of trucks on the interstate and gravel crunching under my feet. it's a symphony.