Down East

Humans could hear the voices of the men working at the mill in the vale. Or dad singing at Sunday mass. The fluttering of birds in the trees. The stones rattling against the bottom of cars moving down the road. The stone quiet in winter. Except for the howl of the dogs. And the wind rattling the window. But you couldn't hear the creek babbling in French. Or the cows farting in unison. Or the snakes laughing in the tall grass as they belly flopped down the hill. Everything was beautiful. And then it wasn't.