No silence of the lambs here, Clarice.
No silence of any kind. The too-many roosters crow all the live-long day and night. The guineas that bully the roosters mouth off between snapping bites at the butts of the chickens. The chickens scold me when I open a door without flinging offal at them. The goats maaahhhh and peer hopefully from their prison. When not barking at imaginary foes while allowing strangers to sidle to the Mansion portal uncontested, the dogs thump and whine and gallop around the porch.
The wild critters are also vocal. Most recently, the serenade of the cicadas has ruled the great outdoors. That changed last week. The amphibians, done tuning up, and are in full voice every evening.
Out back, around Poolio, the heavy night air is thick with frog calls. It sounds like one of every species is belting out his anthem. I will not walk around Poolio. The light only shows his surface. It does not penetrate the inky shadows that envelope his rotund framework. I have no aversion to our fine slimy friends. But I have no desire to step on a squishy croaker.