One afternoon, before I left Joplin, Canon and I went to the park.

We strollered to “our campsite” (B calls it), a place off the path that’s perfect for hammocking and tenting and sword-fighting with sticks.

It was warm for December. I hung the hammock and let it blow. We played in the leaves with rocks and sticks; Canon adventured around the biggest tree, holding onto the trunk as he went.

After a while we climbed into the hammock. We sat sideways so I could swing us with my feet on the ground. I put my arm around him and we leaned back and watched the treetops and the sky for a long time, back and forth. And Canon was still and quiet, just watching.

I read a book once about oral cultures, and about how people possibly retained information better through stories and songs than textually like we do. I figure it’s especially good for kids before they can read and write, so I sing a lot with the boys — songs we know, songs we make up. It’s fun, but maybe it’s more than fun. At the very least they learn something about how language works and how we play with it.

So swinging at the campsite I made up a tune and fit some words about the things we could see and what it was like to be in the hammock at the park on such a day. And Canon listened.

After a few verses I stopped, then asked,

“Can you sing a song, Canon?”

Silence…

I waited. Another few moments, then he started to quietly sing. He’s little still, so there weren’t really words, but it was a song — Canon’s song.

Back and forth, and he sang some more. I don’t know what he said, but I think I know what he meant. After a while he was quiet again; I looked down and saw that he’d sung himself to sleep.

It was a good moment, one I thought I should write down to remember.

The very quiet can sing.