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.