On the Subject of Listening

Ava Craven

I live on White Pine Road and at age 10 and my dad told me to listen. “You hear that rush? That’s the wind in the White Pines-”

“Oh wait, that’s actually just the highway,” he says, at age 40 while he crushes dried pine needles in his hand in frustration like a third grader who lost his recess privileges.

I heard a Barred Owl outside my window hooting its notorious call, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” or it could just be my neighbor Kathi.

My dad is disappointed that the highway sound is a source of comfort for me but, at age 20 that distant rush hour is what keeps the static in my brain from going sour “and what would you say if that highway disappeared?” he says, at age 50 while on an Adirondack looking up at the night sky like a philosopher searching for something out there to enlighten him, answer him.

Maybe the static might overcome me Maybe the static might become me

Or maybe the rush hour’s absence would bring forth April showers, May flowers, June’s warblers, July’s critters

Maybe in harmony with all my static a rhythm would emerge within me. Every bird call, every gust of wind, every wave lapping across the shore, nothing else, nothing more than a listening girl, and a (somewhat) quiet mind with an open door.