I was born where the cattle roam, and the deer call home.

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Springtime brings new calves. At night you can hear the mothers calling them home from exploring; weary of the tornados that are lurking in every thunderstorm. The toads are croaking, and the creeks are babbling. Everyone has something to say about the past winter.

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In Summertime the willows like to gossip with the crows. The cicadas murmur about the evenings, and the crickets carry that conversation into the night. But the yipping of coyotes reminds you that the night doesn't sleep.

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The Oaks shudder in Autumn as the wind carries the last of their leaves across the pastures. The bass jump in the pond, Armadillos are scrounging for roots, and the wild Turkeys are always letting you know where they are.

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Winter is Quiet. She's bitter and cold, but she means well. The trees lie-and-wait for her coming ice, while the Horned Owls in their branches scout for food. Cardinals and Scissor Tails hop along the snow, and the Bald Eagles make their arrival from the North. Winter is quiet, but just as busy.