image of raindrops from flickr.com
the earth speaks in a syntax of wind, in the slow-moving vowels of shadow across stone; its grammar lives in the way grasses lean, in how light punctuates the ridge at dawn, each pause a lesson, each shift a clause in the long, unwritten text of being alive; and when we listen, truly listen~ we feel meaning gather like seeds in the palm, a quiet fluency in the language we were born knowing but forgot how to read.
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