At first he thinks it is the trees, moaning in the wind, but realizes the sound corresponds with his steps. It’s the grass making the horrible noise. With each step, a boot-shaped spot of grass cries out in pain. The plants, it seems, are alive.
He hits the side of a tree with the back of his hand and hears nothing. But when he reaches up and plucks a leaf, he catches a faint noise in the air. He grabs a whole handful and pulls, breaking off a small limb, the bark ripping and tearing its way back into the side of a large branch. This time there is no mistaking the sound of pain. A sharp but muffled scream races past his head, disappearing into the dark, early morning sky.
The idea that everything is alive is unsettling, and he tries to imagine the possibilities as he moves about the barn, completing his chores. Have other people heard this, he wonders. I can’t be the only one. Someone must have heard. No one will believe me if I’m the only one.
Even the bales of hay, two seasons old, make a dull, grumbling sound, as if being woken from a deep sleep, as he pulls them apart and stuffs them into the mangers for the waiting cows. He usually stands around for a few minutes each morning, watching the cows eat, big chunks of hay sticking out of the sides of their mouths as they chew, the steam rising from their big nostrils in the cold morning air. But this morning he turns off the light and leaves as soon as the chore is done. He doesn’t want to be around when the hay fully wakes up. He doesn’t want that sound in his ears. Running across the grass back to the house is hard enough. When he finally hits the back porch, he is out of breath, gasping harder then he ever has from such a short run, the fear of what he has heard finally taking hold, pulling the air from his lungs.