Yet another aircraft buzzes overhead unseen in the fog but, busily at work on my woodpile, I chop steadily through the intrusion. Soon there is no sound but the thump of the splitting maul and the cracking of the big rounds from the tree I felled a few weeks ago as they turn into firewood. I pause to ease my back and listen to silence. Then I hear the rhythmical beat of wings through the misty treetops and the passing croaks of a raven. From a distant foggy tree another answers back. I am tempted to add my own comment in raven talk but then think better of it. My chopping, my chainsawing is the equivalent of the passing aircraft - human generated noise. Silence, the inner thought of the real world, is precious.