There's the silence of grief. The silence of alone. The silence of two people sharing words with only their presence. The silence of sunrise. The silence between verses of poetry or between the tympani's beat. The silence of snow falling at night or flowers blooming.
As I watched the silence of birds soaring, a swallow dropped from the sky and flew beside me, not once but twice, so I could hear the silence broken by the sound of wings rushing by me. The sound of flight. I descended the mountain, bound by gravity, looking upward to see again, the sound of flight.
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