Sunday morning. A clear sky. Not humid yet and an ever so slight breeze. It “feels” like a quiet morning here in the mountains.  “Feels” like quiet? Yes, feels. True, the usual cacophony of birds is absent. They’ve finished their territorial calling and are mostly busy with raising their brood. Still, I can hear a distant Blue Jay imitating a red-shouldered hawk, the coo of a mourning dove, and the buzzing wings of a hummingbird. The occasional green frog twangs at the pond. The cicadas have started, their incessant buzz contributing to the calm. So, it really isn’t all that quiet. It just feels that way. The weight of the air cloaks my shoulders like a soft blanket. It dampens all the twitters, buzzes, and twangs into a distant and barely perceptible din, like when you’re in the library and you can hear the voices of the world passing by through the closed window. The resulting calming effect enwraps a body. It’s quiet. You can literally “feel” it.