Nation of Silence

The small red car raced like an exotic bird through the teeming hills, down into the shallow valley, down, down, down, racing seeds against the blank white of the sky above. Flowers bowed low as if to a raving sovereign, robes billowing, before righting themselves swaying wildly in its wake with a peculiar whispering left behind, the gossip and secrets of verdure are not for the tarmac below or the sparsely circling birds above. The lives of plants are an unconquerable and a stoic nation of silence. The air in the valley sagged as thunder pressed itself against the hills. The car, irregardless, recklessly sprinting around banks and verges. Fine rain fell for a time penetrating the cool damp valley turning the road a darker shade and quenching the greedy lichen that clung to tree trunks like crooked head stones to history. A stream of blue smoke streamed abruptly from the car window still racing among the remote roads. Car and driver approached a slope in the road the wheels hit the slick road and skidded on the mud that had congregated there. The plant life; the moss languishing on the stones, the torpid lichen experienced the abnormally slow ark of the car through the air, its embarrassingly loud crash into the depths of the marsh, flecked with duck weed. The noise echoed around the valley which then resumed its silent vigil. More time passed the occasional car visited the valley but the rain hurried away the mud, the grass grew evasively over the low verge repairing the cuts the tires had made and the wind continued to race the seeds that wondered around the valley, settling, adjusting and germinating. Everything was as it had been; the rocks shifted imperceptibly as though they were elderly men in a retirement home, orbiting the same habitat, the course grass grew out and over and down, clinging to everything pernicious and single-minded. The surface of the marsh remained still and unmoved, its imperturbable green depths unapologetic and it’s contents untroubled.


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