Three of them sat around the afternoon fire talking.  Sometime ago he had taken a thirty-six-inch tractor rim and set it in the ground.  As the two of them talked he watched the fire.  Noticing that as the rim heated, the ground around it melted, softened, and turned to mud.  They’re talkers.  But he knew that.  There were times when these two, in a few minutes, could place more words in the wind than he could do in a day.  That was fine.  He liked words.  And he liked having them around.

Late-winter sandhill cranes flew overhead.  Had it been morning they’d lock up and float into the nearby pasture.  In a few weeks they would trust the small afternoon pasture and settle in, but today they kept course toward a large corn stubble field.  They are good talkers too, he thought.  Their warbling words have an ancient sing-song warbling quality.  And though he struggled to understand their language, he could listen to them all day.

As more ground melted it became apparent this was a bird afternoon.  Thousands of snow geese flew easterly along the southern ridge.  Strings of Canadian flew into the valley from the south.  Local mallards, pintails, and teals filled the empty spaces.  A certain quiet settled above the fire.

Quiet begs questions for those whom quiet is difficult.  From across the fire he is asked, “So, how is community working out for you these days.”  Personal questions trouble him—though he is sure the questioner would never think the question personal.  He ponders long enough to hear the quiet.  Yet, quiet has an edge when he finally answers.  With a question.  “Community, you talking human or non-human…or both?”