When I move I will miss the blowing horn of early morning freight trains, as they speed along in the dark, on tracks that intersect neighborhood streets to the east and west of here. The tracks are just far enough from here that the rumbling of wheels and the low slow horn noises are charming, not jarring. I’ve come to count on those train sounds as a measure of how much of the night has passed and how much time is left for sleep.
When I move I will miss the humming and calls of peepers from trees at the edge of our hill and the pond across the road. Their annual chorus tells me spring is here, peonies will bloom soon, and days are getting longer and warmer.
When I move I will miss the cows bleating when their calves are weaned. When I hear those sad cries, I want to tell them I’m sorry for what they are going through. Their calls, urgent and frequent at first, slow- until one day there is only silence coming from the pasture, and I know cool weather, and autumn leaves will be here soon. I know those cows will be mothers again soon.
When I move there will be new sounds. Across the road there is a riding ring and three horses. Will I hear them? There is a river nearby. Who lives on its banks? Will I hear them? I’ve seen an owl, perched in a tree, in the field below my house. Will I hear him?