The Silence of the Hills

The summer had burned the landscape into a kind of silence. Every blade of grass seemed brittle enough to shatter beneath a glance. I climbed alone, following no trail, only a vague pull toward the ridge where evening gathered. The slope offered no clear passage, only a tangled maze of thorn and brush resisting every step. The hills so dry, so dense the underbrush, that where I pushed my way, the giant hush was changed to soft explosion.

Twigs cracked, seedpods burst, and hidden creatures scattered through the thorny dark. Yet beyond those brief disturbances, the land returned immediately to itself, swallowing every sound. Standing at the crest, I looked over a valley fading into a blue haze. The world seemed abandoned but not empty, as though something ancient still watched from within the silence, patient as stone, waiting for night to arrive.

Photo credits:  Bare tree covered with fog by Carl Jorgenson, Unsplash.

Posted for Prosery: A view from the hills @dVerse Poets Pub