In the Shadow of Soundless Winds

Beneath our legs, something old listens. It generally does not talk in language or symbols, however in the reduced hum of tectonic plates, in the slow move of continents, in the way sources discover the night without eyes. We go across their epidermis, never knowing how serious their storage runs. Every wheat of sand has damaged from a mountain. Every drop of rain was once section of a storm nobody remembers. The Planet remembers every thing — it really doesn't talk it aloud.

Its voice is concealed alone — the type of stop that echoes. You are able to sense it once the breeze dies and the woods stay entirely still. You are able to hear it in the stillness following magic, when even chickens seem to pause. That silence isn't empty. It's filled with believed, whole of age, packed with presence. The World is not quiet since it is asleep. It is quiet because it is hearing — to people, to the air, to itself.

We're loud. We load the air with engines, sirens, voices, music, machines. But none of the sound basins into the ground. The Earth concentrates not with ears but with patience. It waits for what employs our noise — what stays when our buildings drop, when our signals disappear, once the satellites burn out in the upper sky. And when that time comes, it it's still here — however turning, still blooming in places unmarked, still whispering in ways just the breeze and the roots can hear.

We think of Earth as strong, as unmoving, as anything we live on. But it is significantly more than that. It is a body — living, shifting, breathing over time too gradual for us to see. It does not shout, it does not beg. It endures. And in that quiet stamina lies an electric far higher than fire or flood: the ability of something that has nothing to prove. Anything that's previously survived the delivery of the Planet, the demise of woods, the stop following meteors.

This is not only land. It is not merely rock and water. It is really a keeper. A cradle. A storage that doesn't forget. Somewhere heavy under, beneath the pressure and stone, it however murmurs the history of how it all began.

But it won't reveal in words.

We should learn how to listen in silence.