The Silence

I see the restaurant fan push dense smoke, a bluegray trail of charred steak, perhaps, over the town. With the channel at my back, looking up at the hill, I imagine that pieces of delicious smells will weave themselves in amongst fir boughs and onto shop roof tops; a thin veneer; a complex mix of car exhaust, perfume and food. Of cardboard shipping boxes and even the purse smell of green bills.
I see the fan, but do not hear it. All around is a whirring. Fan motors, motors and motorcycles. Truck tires and scraping heels of talking people and barking dogs. Crows and seagull cries. All that and yet I hear the silence.
It weaves itself into the coarse fabric of noise, thin spider threads of gold; tenderthin, yet strong. Over and around, through and front, there and hidden. A sheen of silence, a thin veneer, over the busy world.
Somewhere in the forest a leaf drops from tree tops. Slowly tumbling, stalling in free flight; fluttering quietly in the still. The sound is of a funereal song; the parting, a lost goodbye.
That fan turns off and the gold tendrils surge collectively. Weaving and exploring, denser and aware. When night comes, the fabric will have turned to gold, all coarseness covered and infiltrated, saturated with the night-dew of silence. I will be asleep and flowing like the channel flows, steadystrong, even if no one is watching.