spoken word

Not a Spoken Word

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As I write tonight, I’m listening to the night sounds in the City. The constant sound of traffic is sort of like white noise. I like it.

There are motorcycles doing wheelies and dove pairs coo-cooing on the branches close to the window. Screechy speed demons test out their brake jobs. There is the deafening roar of the helicopters overhead and the fire engines and police cars as they make their way to the scene.

The more subtle sounds escape my ear but I depend on my eyes to hear what they have to say. Like reading lips I listen with my whole being, concentrating on the whole message and not just the spoken word. Does the little old lady in the rest home across the street understand that I bought flower boxes to match her glorious geraniums? Does she feel the warmth my spirit sends when I wave from below? And how about the homeless man who makes not a sound as he digs through the foul trash I just threw into the dumpster?

Few would hear the whir of the Hummingbird’s wings as they hover near my window panes. But some of the most important things are shown and not a spoken word anyway.