The sound of a cricket and the no-sound of absence. No sense not nonsense, only the hushed humming of morning. Morning, still with dust in its eyes, darkness, wrapping up its shift. The birds have begun to rehearse while the dead mourn their last drink. Thoughts piercing the veil of dreams, shadows creeping over the landscape. The movement of water through pipes and the air unseen. My existence made known in the quiet clattering of keys. Streams of consciousness louder than the Winooski river. A lonely crow singing inside a church bell.