I wake to the muted static of freeway traffic in the distance.
It’s comforting, like a den radio someone’s grandfather fell asleep to in a burnt orange recliner, long after last at-bats and even hours later, when they run through the highlights of the baseball game he was listening to.
Or maybe the hushed whooshing is a lone horse in the greenest of grassy pastures, serenely swatting flies with its tail.
It’s the whispering creak of a weathered hammock, resting between two bowed birches.
It’s that cozy quiet, that contented state of being, the freeze frame inside the moving picture: before the frayed knots give way and the hammock collapses. Before the horse gets spooked and bucks clumsily into a fence post. Before the radio angrily blasts heavy metal and startles the grandfather awake.
I linger a little longer so I can commit this insignificant Sunday morning to memory: when the world was still moving but I was still. And the present remained untouched by the future. And for a brief, suspended moment, everything was perfect in the stillness of the glittering now.