Silence doesn't exist. It's merely a thoery in the minds of those who consider the most remote possibilities. It's never really silent regardless of where you go.
It's either the roar of a river eternally carving its track in the rock below, or the rush of traffic pushing its way down the Turnpike.
If you can't hear the loud hum of the cicada, the air-conditioners on concrete slabs quickly take their place.
If a coyote doesn't howl at the moon, the puppy put out on the patio upstairs for the night will fill in.
If the endless number of crickets aren't calling out to one another in the dark of night, the high-pitched mumbles of children waiting for the school bus will fill the air.
When the click-clack of ice layered on snow is no longer present, the high-heels of a woman walking to her car will suffice.
Even if we lock ourselves behind doors and walls of insulation, trying to force out the sounds of the world around us, our ears ring with the reverberation of every sound we've ever heard and all of the sounds that will be.
