It is 3 AM and I’m awake again. This time the noise that woke me was the garden cart blowing away from the house. At first I thought someone was trying to steal the cart from all the racket the wheels made rolling over the concrete patio. But when I turned on a light in the garden and saw the cart in the flower bed, I knew the culprit for all the noise must be the wind.
There has been the constant tingy music from the wind chime and I remember the weather announcer saying we were having 17 mile-an-hour winds for the next three days–trade winds. Or did he predict the wind in knots? No, it must have been miles. The ocean waves surrounding this island have been cresting in white foam.
My mind is wandering, as minds will late at night. All of the sudden it seems very important to remember the sound of the creek that ran, burbled behind the house I lived in in Chapel Hill. I can picture it. The sunlight glistening off the ripples, like diamonds tossed in the current. I can remember the green of the moss that grew on the wet rocks and the way I’d leap from boulder to boulder as I tried to cross the creek following the old path the deer have tromped out for centuries.
Yes, I can see the creek clearly in my mind’s eye. I can feel the cooling chill of its wet water. I remember it all so well. So why can my ear hear that burble of the water tumbling over the rocks? Why can’t I hear that sound, the white noise which will lull me back to sleep?