Two sets of adult footprints follow the shore line.
Headed west , stride by stride.
A symphony as of one.
Their parade heads into the infinite horizon
They are known to us only by their signature prints.
We hear them not: nor see them except in our imagination.
Their silence – is it a means of avoiding the revelations of the spoken word?
Does silence shield us from sharing our profound, risky ideas from the world?
Or is silence a cave like repository of our deepest thoughts and knowledge?
The even tide raises to a level overwhelming the prints of our stranger friends.
Covering each with a cascade of water… then the hand of undercurrent sweeps
the prints away and into the receding ocean.
Or does it?
While walking the trekkers made an impact on the beach, on those
watching them, on the squawking gulls scarfing for dinner.
Their silence? Only to those who were not there to observe.
What happens to the sounds they made? Where do they go?
Do they last forever in a yet undiscovered pantheon of the universe?
Is there a planet comprised of captured sounds where language is melt
into silence for all, and simultaneously no one to hear.
And so it is with our silent thoughts, dreams, ideas.
They may remain deep inside of our imagination.
But never disappearing.. are always present.
These unspoken concepts find a way onto the beach:
In written script: as a nugget of conversation with an
unsuspecting friend.
What we think and imagine remains silent for only a little while.
rlhassociates 