Veiled by muffled strain of radio song,
water fall and garden breeze,
the silence softly speaks.
Sensed in registers we cannot hear,
a high-pitched hum -
fainter than an insect's buzz,
more hushed than meadow's crickets.
Curtains dance on breath of Summer.
The silver murmur of a TV screen,
mute but still tuned in,
whispers legends of a royal domain
before our toil began.
All knowing recedes to ether.
You call to us in cool of day.