Pressure Tuned

Just to sit here.
To listen.
I hear everything.
As it sits on top of me.
As if under sea.
Pressure tuned.
New sounds balloon.

Crickets and grasshoppers duel
Over a war of attrition outside these brick walls.
To devour enough for winter’s tomb.
To store enough while summer blooms.

Humidity swells the doors shut.
Nothing is not water logged here.
Surrounded by a forest of sound.
For there is nothing else around.

Insects.
Trains.
Contractors.
Traffic.
Thunder.
Ceiling fan.
Refrigerator.
Leaf blower.
Lawn mower.
Static.

In these suburban woods
All sounds vibrate through, misunderstood.
Haunting ears and mind.
All frequencies seeking the sublime.