365 Days (Part 1) | ✓

34. Sounds

34. Sounds: Sit outside for about an hour. Write down the sounds you hear.

From a swing in my backyard.

The first sound it the wind. I don't necessarily hear it as I hear what it hits: the gentle rushing of the leaves as they sway, the small pops of autumn's fallen leaves skipping over the ground, the whistle as it sneaks into hidden places.

When leaves are moved by the wind, it is a divine sound. There is nothing so calming, so soothing as that flutter, of thousands of evergreens knocking into each other and forming a whole orchestra of lovely feelings.

There's the slight creak of the branches. Jeffery's tree is a young, skinny thing. Its slender limbs bow under the unforseen pressure from the wind, making slight little popping noises.

Then there's the leaves that have fallen, still sticking around from Autumn even though it's February. They have dulled to bland shades browns now, and pile up in corners. A substantial wind can knock them free, and forces them to skip and leap over the ground, carrying them in its current.

The second noise is the animals: each bird with its distinctive chirp, each dog barking in the distance, each human force, hidden by the high walls of pur fences, calling unintelligible words.

If you sit still long enough, the birds forget you are present. Or maybe they just accept the fact that you mean them no harm, and so they step boldly forward to eat the grain my mom places out for them in the birdfeeder.

I like the tiny hop they make, and the lyrical noises that issue from  beak. When they peck at the seeds in the feeder, they always dislodge more than they needed. A clump of tiny grain will spill to the ground, scattering over grass, bouncing on concrete, and ricocheting off of clay flowerpots. Some will land in the rich dirt of said pots, and eventually sprout. I am the one who pulls these tender shoots up.

When the birds tweet to each other from their perches in the trees, it is as magical as listening to a sweet-voiced conversation in the most beautiful language because that is what it is.

But when I move, I frighten the birds, and in a whoosh of feathers and indignant tweets they retreat to their trees, the trees with the swaying leaves.

Sometimes a squirrel or a bunny will come by. The bunny will venture tentatively out, sniffing the air: the picture of hesitancy. I cannot hear thw bunny when he comes, but he is startled and mist leaves, I hear his padded feet bound off the grass as he lopes away.

The squirrel is chattier than the bunny. He'll come and dig among the tree roots with soft snuffling noises for his hidden stash of acorns. Then with a methodical gnawing, he will chew the redeemed nuts. It's a bit like gnashing your teeth together -- that is what the squirrel sounds like. Along with small scratching noises from the squirrel scampering up Jeffery's tree and the patter of its feet along the branches.

There's our backyard chickens. Perhaps my chickens are severely demented, or maybe they just defy the stereotype, but my chickens never made cute clucking noises. They emit and elongated scream, similar if we were summon an unearthly tribal cry from the back of our throats.

There's the constant pecking of their beaks in their relentless search for food, and the shift of dirt as they scratch the ground with their taloned feet.

There's the distant dogs with their variety of barks: yips and deep ruffs and high, whinned yowling. From the yard next to mine, I can hear the tinkle of the dogs' collars and their heavy panting when they try desperately to reach me through the planked fence. I somehow do not think they are friendly.

The third sound is one that is both the ruination and caretaker of nature: the human one. Sometimes my neighbors come out and yell a word at their dog, or maybe several words, depending. They are short, precise, and usually without extended patience.

Or I will hear the blasting of Sweet Home Alabama and the bounce of a basketball. Sometimes there is a satisfactory swoosh of the net as the ball sails in. Mostly I can hear it come into rude contact with the rim of the hoop. This is always accompanied with either rejoicing or bemoaning.

In the summer, I will hear my teenage neighbor having a pool party. I will hear him say "Marco" and a girl's voice respond "Polo." I will hear the splash of water and happy, uninhibited laughter.

Or the low thrum of a lawnmowing engine, the intensity of which varies as it movies closer or farther away. The random stops, the buzz of the weedwhacker, the hum that comes from it being too hot.

I most dislike the buzz of cicadas, and the small, pulsing tones that come with them. Or the chirp of cricket and buzz of things unseen that fly too close to your ear.

Often I hear the low voice of my neighbor and the high, innocent tones of his little daughter as they play together. Funny how they both laugh, and even if the noise is different, it sounds the same to me.