I’m in a house at the top of long driveway that winds an ice-rutted dirt path up a hill to a place where the trees clear. A batting line-up’s worth of blue jays poke at feeders. The birds grab seeds and fly into the bare branches to crunch through their prize. There are deer prints in the snow that’s fallen this week and a black-and-white cat curled up on a chair.
I’m learning to live in the silence of the country, the silence of surroundings that are full, but unnervingly quiet.
Everywhere is rural in this province, everywhere is country. Even in the towns, it’s country quiet. No taxis honking for fares, no mini trucks with speakers stacked on the bed thudding out music to sell an album or a movie, no neighbours coming home after midnight, heels clacking on tile hallway, keys turning in the door.
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What is left when the noise of the city is stripped away? There is silence that needs to be filled. I occupy the space in between sounds with the radio, am glad for the whirring furnace, the beep of the coffee maker, the clank of the buttons on my sweater in the dryer.
And if noise were to come from outside, it would jolt me, lash me with a what-was-that surge of fear. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of a wing, a droplet of rain. There is too much to see, too much to feel, nothing to hear but the silence, the quiet of country and rural life.