solitude was a useful tool, she thought, but she had yet to understand how. it only made her think of the people she was missing. perhaps it was which people, and how, that were important.
a loon cried out over the lake. there was a lonely creature.
silence is not very silent, she thought to herself. thunder, crickets, rain; the occasional bullfrog or loon; the persistent lapping of the water. water always moves toward the shore--where does it move away from?
the first band of storms had gone. her curiosity tempted her outside just soon enough to see that the second band was darker, lower, and moving much faster. the clouds made her feel exceptionally small. the trees were dead still as the clouds relentlessly rolled forward. the low branches began to flicker first. she shivered, and went back inside before the clouds overtook the last evening light.
she sang into the storm and thought of how much silence, though not silent, is enveloping. as soon as the last syllable was past her lips, it was swallowed by the quiet, and it was as if her voice had never been. but then, she knew that her vibration still traveled out, even if it was now so small as to be unheard, carried on the wind and the rain into the lake and the trees and the world, and that somewhere, her voice would touch some life in a way that neither of them would predict or understand.
the lightning lit the forest like milliseconds of day.