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

the mundane signs deem

guilty the innocent Asian snail’s

quiet invasion of death,

while English ivy strangles trees

the silence is infinite and eternal.