Even with the children

        talking, hiccupping, treading

                their shoes from shores afar,

                        scuffed and scratching softly

                                on gravel from a local quarry,

                                        picking up soil from the hills

                                                with the soles of their Nikes,

                                                        the sounds of the creek

                                                                with the souls of their hearts,

in between the humming

        of a Piper Cub above,

                the clang of distant hammers,

                        trill and swoop of birds,

                                the tripping tapping of the stream,

                                        and the mundane sign shouting

                                                guilty the innocent Asian snail's

                                                        quiet invasion of death,

                                                                while English ivy strangles the trees,

           the silence is infinite and eternal.