Visitors to the farm often remark how quiet it is.
What they mean to say is how they don't hear the sounds of car engines, human voices, the clanks and clatters of city life.
The farm is not quiet in June.
I awaken, in darkness, to coyote yips as mothers teach their pups how to hunt.
The mockingbird goes through his repertoire hours before dawn. Accompanying him are the crickets, and the occasional burp of the bullfrog from the pond a half-mile away.
At dawn the song birds join the chorus.
As do the hens, with their clucks and squawks.
And, of course, the roosters crow all day long.
The ram bellows when the sheep amble to pasture and leave him behind.
Lambs bleat, calling for their mothers.
Horses whinny, reminding me that it's time to go to pasture.
Although the sounds quiet in the late morning and afternoon, when it is siesta time, I still hear the buzz of flies, the bees, a disgruntled hen.
The insect sounds grow louder toward dusk, as do the hens as they squabble for prime roost space. As the sun sets, the owls hoot, closing a sound-filled day.