Our new climate, the paper says, will silence many songbirds. In a lifetime or two, all we’ll hear are hawks and crows. Crows and hawks are all I heard, anyway, having lost my high-frequency hearing long ago to rock and roll. Though it may have been the rifle range at summer camp. Or, a decade later, the hard enterprise of my hometown’s shipyard.
It’s a strong habit, not hearing, and my new hearing aids alone are not enough. My audiologist says I’ll catch myself saying, “What?” when a moment’s reflection might have allowed my brain to process sounds into comprehension.
What does it all mean? The leaves now rustle. The house settles and my knees creak. A scarlet tanager sings from a wood’s high catafalque.