top of page
Writer's picturecherylmurfin

The sounds of a walk



It's always my favorite part of a long walk—and one of my favorite prompts to give to the people who walk with me. Listening to the path, or more precisely, all the sounds that accompany it. Of all the senses, hearing is my least exercised and the one that most astounds me when I finally pay attention.


Of course, there is the beautiful sound of strangers taking the trusting jump into friendship, the sound of those first tentative questions, the wondering, "How much do I say? How much do I reveal about myself?" giving way to understanding and acceptance and, sometimes, recognition that our stories are not all unique. They are own but often recognizable in the experience of the other.


But on this second day of walking, we also give each other a wider space to be alone, quiet, and aware of the natural world around us. And what a symphony that world is. For me, this day devoted to hearing is always full of newness and awe—even if I've taken this exact track before. Here's what I heard:


Morning speaks to me


Three birds I can’t identify 

Shy, fallow fields whispering “I’m naked.”

Where do the foxes rest?

Golfers on the green.

All those ducks, sitting.

The car that I can’t see 

on a road that I don’t know.

A whistling.

The thwat thwat thwat

of walking stick on soft-packed ground.

There, the coohoo of a forest dove.

Water falling,

then waterfowl.

landing on the river.

Ducks finding their voice 

on the other side of the river.

A heron standing perfectly still

and a trout, a leap, and a splash.

Ripples.

Rushing.

An overture

bright and melodic

under a steel white sky

marked by the moan of trombone around rock beds,

and of tympani rolling over an old log.

The inching of morning glory as she creeps up the Hedgerow 

and the wind rustling through the trees like a taffeta skirt passing by.

A silence that is very loud.

—Cheryl Murfin, September 2024


Along the way, we stopped in a beautiful garden and met the man who had nurtured and built it over the last 27 years. He's about to retire and hand the reigns over to his son, which got me thinking about my own children and what I will hand over to them. Eventually. The gardener was joyful. He knows his son is almost ready. He has confidence all will be well.

What more would I want to hand over to my kids?


Before we left the garden, we were given a prompt: Go through the garden and pick the plant, tree, or element that is you. I chose a hedge turned into a close in the style of Dali—giving the illusion that it is slipping from 3D to 2D.


It felt like the truest image of myself I've ever seen outside the mirror.




Me in a garden


I am a Dali hedge clock,

Melting under the weight of time.

My body bends at 2:15 PM—

The angle extreme

and mysterious

and silly

and matching my heart exactly.

I never reach 2:16

I never return to 2:14

But I am well-trimmed

I look ready to run like the spook who took off with the plate

Only two questions hold me here:

Can I make a graceful exit?

And

Why are the hedge roots beckoning “Come home! Come home?”


— Cheryl Murfin, September 2024

7 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page