Where the Ground Still Breathes

In the countless black between stars, wherever light flickers like desperate embers and time doesn't have form, there drifts anything unusual — anything alive.

It generally does not blaze such as for instance a star or move like dust.

It converts in silence.

A breath stopped in the black.

It's perhaps not the greatest, nor the brightest. But it's the only one we've ever identified that sings.

Their style isn't loud. It speaks in habits — in the motion of oceans, in the tremble of leaves, in the wind that curls around mountaintops. Every noise it creates is a memory. Every change, an indication that actually stop carries rhythm.

Beneath their atmosphere, woods increase like thoughts. Streams transfer like veins. Lightning forks like sudden language. Fire still sleeps in their stomach, strong beneath the crust, churning quietly, recalling the afternoon it first burned.

We go on their area like desires pressed to its epidermis — quick and fragile, however not unnoticed.

We search, we construct, we walk across its spine.

We name everything we touch.

We overlook how little we realize of what lies beneath.

You will find mountains which have observed the atmosphere change shape.

Canyons etched maybe not by fingers, but by patience.

Forests that have never seen a human style, however breathing in great rhythm.

And we — a glint in their schedule — question it for more.

More land.

More warmth.

More answers.

However it has recently given people everything.

It has given people weather. Color. Sound.

It's given us a location where water works free, wherever light bends through clouds, where soil understands how to develop life from nothing.

In most our searching — through telescopes, rockets, distant desires — we have never found yet another like it. Never found still another place wherever air could be created, wherever stories take root, where in actuality the atmosphere starts perhaps not with emptiness, but with magic and birds.

That world, calm as it might appear, is magic we have hardly started to understand.

And however, we processor out at it.

We check their patience.

We protect its streams with material and silence its forests.

However, it turns.

Still, it rains.

However, it allows us to live.

There may be different worlds — dispersed, icy, waiting in the dark. But none that maintain people therefore completely. Nothing that have shaped people into what we're, or can be.

This Planet is not merely our home.

It's our beginning.

And if we hear closely — when we stop talking good enough — we would hear it still whispering back.

Not with words.

But with wind.

With waves.

With the smooth rumble beneath our feet that reminds us:

We are standing on something alive.