It’s quiet out here, yet all I’m doing is listening.

Listening to the rooster crow across the yard.
Listening to the soft whir of the ceiling fan above me on the patio.
Listening to the little buzz of the wasp flying around my head.
Listening to the ruffling of the leaves on our Bradford Pear.
Listening to Donna’s horses blow dust from their soft noses.
Listening to the motorcycle roar down the highway in the distance.
Listening to the black crows argue over green-and-yellow grasshoppers.
Listening to the white baby goats bleat for their mamas by the fence.
Listening to Richard’s keys jingle in his pocket as he walks by.
Listening to the hound dog bark across the street.

This is my favorite kind of quiet.