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stories of noisy silence

urban || rural


the sun is blinding me as it spreads through the fog. i can’t quite see the muddy pond. the cattle are drinking their morning coffee, and the geese are making their infrequent visit. i’m not the first here, but i feel like i’m the only one. as the sun stretches to the top of the sky, the fog follows lazily behind. the day is waking up and there is anticipation. what am i going to do? where will i go? am i guiding myself, or am i being led? the fields do not offer me any answers. openness.

if you get up early enough, you can hear the city wake. a slow rumble that builds; grows into a constant mumble. self-assertion gets you to where you are going. slow down, and you’ll get run over. new faces to see, new ideas to listen to, new smells to experience. can i ask the city the same questions? yes, it likes to give me answers, maybe too many. which turn do i take? which place do i enter? what voice do i use? confusion.


About david b. clark

a husband and father || a student of philosophy, theology, history, literature, music, art, computer science


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