In the early light when dew kisses the leaves, the forest speaks in tongues unheard. The tall narrators bend gently in an age-old breeze, sharing stories encrypted within their fibrous veins. Each tree a scribe, etching events in the spiral of time—a chronicle held not in words, but through the structures of bark and the rustle of leaves.
To those who know, a conversation unfolds between roots and wind. Messages within the forest’s embrace transform to gestures between foliage, secret dialogues that hint at understanding lost to man. We're reminded here that human time isn't the only measure, as these ancient watchers thrive beyond our years.
The languages some cannot decode are written in the patterns of the underbrush, the silences forged by animal paths, and sap that runs like blood through the forest’s heart. In these silent lives, where nature holds court, wisdom whispers.