A crescendo rose over the droll of the crickets as thousands of crows took flight beneath a land of clouds parallel to one of swaying gold. In the far west were low slopes, supple indigo breasts on the horizon, nursing the low fog that spread over all that was left in the land; grain.
No song is more beautiful then the strum of nature. The buzzing of yellow-jackets as they zip from the delicate stalks of road-side lily. The sheering call of the hawk as it locks onto a rodent scampering to its hole in hurried terror. The deep thrumming of toads by the wet paddies between rows of golden wheat, birth of the yesterday's storm. The echoes of thunder as clouds condense overhead and threat of more rainfall sends the birds rushing to their young, held up in some abandoned chimney or collapsed telephone pole screeching for their mother.
The sound of wild dogs as they sniff about the undergrowth, their tails swaying to and fro and the brush of their fur a low whisper to the world. The sound of snakes, slithering about the floors like creeping beasts, smooth as crystal as no more than the gliding drag fills the air sending chills down the spine of any beast near. The scuttling of the beetles, the yawning and padding of the bobcat and the silent purr of resting ferrets beneath warm, golden shoots of wheat.
And the sound of man. The folds of his clothing sighing as they meet one another and the sound of their blades clapping against their thighs. Their shallow breath and glazed eyes no more than a distant beat to the rhythm of the world. And then the constantly repeated lyrics to the world, his murmuring. He speaks the call the men say so often, no more than breaths beneath his lips. Now the saying of the land, of the world, man speaks quietly, almost fearfully. He sings to the world, his voice dry and quivering, "Why has god forsaken us."