Quiet isn't silence

Someone is practicing a music piece in Phillips; I can hear it through the open window. A distant, urgent, grey sound rises and then fades; a flock of seagulls has passed over somewhere high above. I can hear life as I sit here with my open books. Birds are somewhere among indistinguishable sounds of water, wind, trees, sunlight, and human voices. Laughter, conversation, yelling, footsteps.