I went for a walk around my neighborhood, and as I got to the conservation area trail heads, I felt the call of the woods, so I followed . As I walked, I paid attention to the sounds I could hear. Along the path I heard the grinding crunch of gravel and stones, and the soft, scuffling, scrunch of dead oak leaves as my feet moved along. The blowing sound of air past my ear, the rustle of dead oak leaves still on the tree as a breeze blows, the soft roar of the wind high overhead in the tall tree tops.
I stop at a pile of rocks to write, and I can hear the squeak of wood on wood as a barren tree rubs against another, a passing jet’s sky high lonely roar, a distant plane’s muted rumble, and an occasional car’s wheel whine. I’m somewhat surprised at how rarely I hear a bird’s chirp and peep, much less the call of a chickadee. It takes a degree of focus to listen to all these sounds, as it can feel so quiet and peaceful. Leaving is easier knowing I can come back anytime.
