Silence.

The forests are cathedrals of dappled light,
and the streams - a murmur of clearness in a forgotten dream.
Heat bends and holds the day in a stillness,
the electric blue sky stretching off, and off, into the imagination.
A warm gust stirs the blades of grass,
which tiredly waft in the breeze.

Wafting lazily out of my vision.

A plane leaves a trail of white clouds which slowly,
ever so slowly disintegrates into long,
thin puffs and then,
nothing.

Come winter snow brings about a stillness
which is sharp, different to the dreaminess of the summer.

A frozen blanket which envelops the land,
with the icy chill bringing about a freshness that is missing in the warm heat of summer.
Even the birds are silent until the spring brings new life to the valley
and the rivers break free of the ice and rip free down the valley to begin anew again.

The tulips in the woods burst into purple flowers in the awakening woods.
The season turns, and the summer brings a stillness to the forests again, until only the tulips hang lazily and tiredly in the summer haze, as if held aloft by the heat itself.

The purple of the petals stretch off into the imagination.
A gust of warm air stirs the grass,
which slowly waft around the silent tulips.
Petals fall to the ground, leaving a trail of colour in the morning air,
which fades away till nothing is left except the brown and red earth colours of the soil.

And if you sit on a branch, in the sleeping tulip forests you hear a new sound after the roar of spring.

Silence.