Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

but they are silent and have sought the quiet places. There are noisy insects but their puny voices are carried elsewhere by the breezes. Aye, there are breezes, but they blow ever so gently and take surpassing care that they do not stirr the sky  bushes + trees too violently. There are flowers, but their bright colors are dimmed by an ever present vague mist, that, coming with the storm, is loath to leave. And there is the crowing of roosters, the cackling of hens, the shouts of children at play; the dis­tressed cry of an infant, the humming conversation of perhaps a little too fluent neighbors; the, playing of a piano, the horn of an automobile and the rush of a train - but the spirit of quiet softens them and blends them till they become unnoticable.

Tonight while reading, I heard the same weird wailing cry, as of a distressed puppy and was surprised to hear Ephie exclaim

“Listen – there’s a screech owl!”