When I was living in the East Bay my house had a backyard with big redwood and eucalyptus trees. It was bird heaven. During mornings and evenings I could hear them socializing, probably gossiping about a day’s work. I had a black cat, Itsy, who was a hunter. Occasionally he brought me feathered gifts, which my husband and I would rush to the animal hospital to see if they could be saved.
One summer day I was enjoying the breeze and the birds in the backyard, when a sudden quiet fell. I looked around in alarm. The afternoon sun, the blue sky, the trees were intact, and the ground was solid. Then I heard the rush. Itsy pounded out from behind the bush. All at once life flooded back. The birds seemed to be shrieking with delight as this time they were the watcher and not the victim.
That moment of silence stayed with me. The moment before something happens—the anticipation—as if the universe is holding its breath. Something is about to change.
