Silence broken

It's eight o'clock. Once again the house is quiet. I can hear the tiles shining in the new light. Fragments of last movements glisten in the shadows. An ant treks across the kitchen floor looking for remnants of rain from heaven. A thud penetrates the glass panel through which I can see the rest of the day. A dove lays at the foot  of the door, dazed and lifeless, a feather flutters above it like the halo calling it away. Stupid bird!
I can feel the silence at my back, calling me to shake it loose from its cage. Not yet. I listen to nothing. It tells me all. The restitution for living is in the stillness of silence. It bares witness to my thoughts and reconciles them with peaceful solitude. One thought, one moment; separated by the emptiness of quiet.
Gone! Time to move.
Manring, Metheny, Mehldau caress the walls with rhythms. Soft and warm. The silence is broken. Not broken, stirred; gently. Notes split the air and leave the space between for long enough that it can be heard again. I search for the silence again. It's there, blending with the life of noise. Its music and I am surrounded by it. It will keep me company through the day until the dust is disturbed once more and the silence rests until tomorrow.