Earlid

Afternoon, and the silence crumbles
In the shovel of someone's machine
Grumbling around rocks, making a trail.

The right kind of noise calls attention
To the other, unnoticed noises,
And whenever the grunting shovel

Stops to chunter, the bird wings get loud,
The annoying fly drones chummily,
A motor home purrs down distant roads,

Dry leaves clamor for a bit of wind,
The neighbor dogs' barks become anguished,
And there is no silence after all.