Silence

She looked up from weeding her garden when the first crow landed nearby, then went back to pulling up crabgrass. But then another one landed, and another. Soon the lawn was covered with crows. Dozens of them. And her.

She had been crouching, her furrowed brow pointed intently toward the ground. She had been listening to little more than her breath and the occasional breathing of the wind in the trees for the last several hours. Now she froze.

She didn't even have to look up, she could feel them. Their wings rustled softly all around her, as though someone were flipping through the pages of a great book. And their eyes – they pierced like a sudden noise in the stillness of a snow-blanketed day.

She had not invited them. Why had they come? She had no food for them, no chichi birdbath, not even what you could call a beautiful garden.

She thought all of this in silence, still gazing intently at the ground beneath her. She did not want to look up, did not want to startle them away. She wanted them to stay. So she kept her head down, but she lifted her eyes gently.

There they sat, not wandering, not searching. Some preened. Some nestled. Some only gazed. It might have been ominous, had they not seemed so utterly content. It was beautiful.

How could she make them stay? Why – once more – had they come? The only thing she had to offer was the silence that she kept.

So that is what she gave. And there they sat quietly. She still heard her own breathing, and the occasional breathing of the wind in the trees. But now it was mingled with peaceful rustling, gentle cooing rumbles. Now her lawn was covered by more than her contentedly working hands. Now her silence was being shared.

So they stayed, and it was beautiful.