I never had a care to listen to anything but the
whooshing of eagles wings, the running of
dirty paws upon shaking earth, the howling
of the proud night in a rush of cold northeastern
currents, the tingle of bells that dreams make, the
screams of insects in far stretching fields, the
drumming of feet whirling in dance, the char of
a wick slimming into nothing above a candle in a
silent, silent room, the roar of a great river,
the a-ha! of an idea striking as lightning in a
young mind, the scrape of paper being turned
hurriedly in anticipation, the boom of a mountain
changing, the shift of sand diamonds beneath bare
toes, the wild call of adventure, the lulling song
of love; the lulling song of death, the wild
song of birth. What mess-ridden noise could
be better? What wisdom greater to hear?

I can think of none.