Where shall I go to hear such deep night sound where I can at once be safe and snug and near to sleep? Have not I appreciated such majestic beauty knowing that the country sounds made in these gentle hills are eternal here. The wooded horizon straight ahead of me is where the sky meets earth lined with the soft brown silhouettes of awakening trees that barely hint of burgeoning spring. So very shortly they will seem to scream their arrival of flowers like colored lace. Hark I hear the calling sounds of nocturnal creatures I can only imagine, celebrating a seasonal awakening and an instinct to create on this midnight evening. The streams are echoing with the mating sounds of amphibious life forms. And I sit perched, enthralled, fortunate and completely spellbound listening to the sounds of a vernal equinox's silence.
Yet as the opaque moonlight deepens it's ethereal glow, it is difficult to let go of this ephemeral moment. A season, a place so dearly cherished so deeply acknowledged it has become a part of me, etched it is upon my soul forever. This softly veiled evening of magic will halt when my eyelids flicker into heaviness, so I listen enchantingly haunted by a fear that there may not be an encore.
Dreams of Pennsylvania farmlands with old red barns steeped in German designs echoing travelers from the past. Undulating hills lined with serpentine stone walls and even larger red barns of old wood topped with copper weathervanes whose emptiness and disuse encourage wild turkey vultures to nest within. Envisioning huge stone hearths centuries old strung with cast iron chains suspending black cauldrons over leaping orange flames. Imagining it once had held wild venison stew scenting the air with spicy warmth. Punctuated with birdsong as the awakening fields lace the air with loaminess and all the living creatures that inhabit this magical place intoxicated by the spell of spring and overjoyed that the soon to burgeon trees shall offer their plentiful gifts to all who will see and hear the glory of God.
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