In these silent times, all’s almost still. But for the whir of the fan blades above, the rise and fall of the book on my chest, my dog’s side visible beyond my feet. Her ribcage swells with her breaths. Then, out again, she shrinks. The whir of the blades again. Through the windows, the leaves are still. Maple, oak, pine trees.

Our boy’s out with friends. My bride’s out practicing music. The cat’s lateral and recumbent on the walk, watching gray squirrels at the bird feeder. She stretches and yawns, almost audacious in watchful slumber.

All’s near quiet. I pick up my novel again. A few more pages. Soon, my bride’ll be home. We’ll eat supper and she’ll speak of music.

‘Youth, manhood, old age past,/Come to thy God at last’ Hawker wrote and preached.

“So teach us to number our days/that we may get a heart of wisdom,” Moses prayed.

The sun’s farther down. My dog snores, unaware of questions or worry or want. She just is.

Tomorrow’s near. Frost penned his famed lines:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

How to say the unsung songs of the heart, where spirits lie in silent chambers? The ache of beauty unexpressed. To strum the strings of the soul in hope of a hearer.