I am sitting alone in the early morning trying to just be quiet. My husband has left for work and my children are not stirring yet. Only the dog and the restless pregnant cat are awake. I find it very difficult to quiet my heart - I can never seem to be really still.

The coffee maker coughs politely in the kitchen. The antique clock never stops counting the seconds, somewhere there is the very small sound of trickling water - the shower drain?? Birds chirp in the woods across the street, their chittering, high, voices sound urgent and rushed. A jay's sharp voice interrupts in warning or complaint. I don't know which. The dog sighs in his sleep.

Even if I hold myself completely still, the room is never still. The pendulum swings in its case, its tarnished brass face reflecting the light of my reading lamp, the open door into the next room. Outside the windows leaves are fluttering in the lilacs that brush the two front panes. A single wisteria bough from the vine that wreathes the kitchen door reaches out in front of the window next to the busy clock. It bobs lightly in the breeze, buoyed by some invisible force. Through the same window I can see the restless wood across the street. Leaves flutter silently, then are still for a time, but begin to stir again when the wind returns, as if they are passing secrets to each other in whispers which can be seen but not heard.

The clock strikes the half hour with a mellow, predictable note. It is usually a background noise, but just now, when I am seeking for quiet, it is loud. I hear steps on the stairs. The quiet hour is gone.