For three days in a row, the fog didn’t lift. The weather forecast promised it would burn off by noon and that the temperature might even hit 20, which would be strange indeed for the tail-end of October. But then, it’s been a strange year. With the fog came a peculiar form of silence. Nothing moved. The leaves clung steadfastly to the trees, with only the occasional drop, disturbed not by a breath of a breeze but by a bird on a bough.

Every now and then a murmuration of starlings would take to the sky.  They moved quickly and quietly in formation. Not a sound. Even the warden crossing the lake moved noiselessly in the water.

The disembodied voices of ducks were about the only sound to be heard. That and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Nothing else. It was so quiet on my walk that I could hear myself think.

I was reminded of the words attributed to Blaise Pascal:

All of man’s troubles stem from his inability to sit quietly in a room alone.

And not for the first time I offered silent thanks that this, at least, I can do. I can sit quietly. I can walk quietly. I can live quietly. I love my quiet. Some say I’m even too fond of it.

I don’t work with background noise. I don’t have the TV or radio on. I don’t have a radio. I don’t have a TV. I’m in the habit of putting my notifications on silent. This time of year, this autumnal mass of grey days, this is my time.