The Sky We Forgot to Thank

In the endless dark between stars, where gentle flickers like desperate embers and time has no form, there floats anything uncommon — something alive.

It does not blaze just like a celebrity or drift like dust.

It turns in silence.

A Air halted in the black.

It is not the greatest, or the brightest. But it's the only person we have ever identified that sings.

Its style is not loud. It addresses in styles — in the motion of oceans, in the tremble of leaves, in the wind that curls around mountaintops. Every sound it creates is a memory. Every shift, a memory that also stop bears rhythm.

Beneath its sky, woods rise like thoughts. Streams transfer like veins. Lightning forks like unexpected language. Fireplace however rests in its belly, heavy beneath the crust, rolling silently, recalling your day it first burned.

We go on their area like dreams constrained to its skin — short and sensitive, however not unnoticed.

We dig, we construct, we stroll across their spine.

We title everything we touch.

We overlook how small we all know of what lies beneath.

You will find hills that have viewed the air change shape.

Canyons carved not by Planet, but by patience.

Woods which have never seen a human style, however breathing in ideal rhythm.

And we — a sparkle in their schedule — ask it for more.

More land.

More warmth.

More answers.

But it has already provided people everything.

It's given us weather. Color. Sound.

It's given people a spot where water runs free, where gentle bends through clouds, where earth understands how to cultivate living from nothing.

In all our looking — through telescopes, rockets, distant dreams — we have never found another like it. Never discovered another place where air can be born, wherever stories get root, where in actuality the sky opens perhaps not with emptiness, but with thunder and birds.

That planet, calm as it may look, is magic we have hardly started to understand.

And however, we processor away at it.

We check their patience.

We cover their rivers with steel and silence its forests.

Still, it turns.

However, it rains.

Still, it allows us to live.

There might be different sides — scattered, icy, waiting in the dark. But nothing that hold us therefore completely. Nothing that have designed people into what we are, or can be.

That world is not just our home.

It is our beginning.

And when we listen directly — if we end speaking long enough — we would hear it however whispering back.

Perhaps not with words.

But with wind.

With waves.

With the smooth rumble beneath our legs that tells people:

We are looking at something alive.