Sounds of Iowa

One of the things I enjoy about walking is listening to the sounds. At home I hear the sound of cars on the highway, the hawk circling above with it's high-pitched cry, the crows cawing as they fly through the trees.
In Iowa the sounds are different.
Some days all I hear as I walk is the wind. It blows across the fields, whipping into my ears. It blocks the sound of oncoming vehicles so that I have to turn around frequently and look for the tell-tale cloud of dust letting me know something is coming. It silences the birds, and keeps the insects down in the grass.
If it is not blowing too hard, but in the right direction, it carries the train whistle across the fields to the house. Warren will try to look out the window to see it. He can see it after harvest, but the corn blocks the view now.
The traffic sounds are of pickups, vans, the schoolbus in the morning, the mailman. I haven't heard a siren yet. And now, as harvest begins, I hear the rumble of tractors, combines, carts, on their way to the fields and the semi's filled with grain on their way to the grain elevators.
But the sound I love the best is on a quiet evening as the sun is setting. There is no wind. The traffic is sparse. As I walk I hear the crunch of my feet on the gravel. An occasional cricket in the grass. The owl in the wood by the south lot. He hoots as I pass, and then is silent, until I return to pass by again. An occasional flutter of a bird in the cornfield trying to hide from me, or settle in for the night. The drumming of wings as a pheasant heads for a more secluded spot. On a quiet night even the corn doesn't rustle.

On a quiet evening, I stop to watch the sun set over the fields. It slowly disappears, leaving behind a horizon layered in orange, tangerine, gold, pale blue. It is so still I can hear myself breathe.
And then I continue home to the crunch of gravel under my feet, and the song of a cricket to keep me company.