Have you ever sat still, beneath the canopy, and listened?
The winding conversations lost between leaves, carried gently by
whimsy and sunbeams? I reckon it's how you find the stories—
not in what's spoken aloud, but the secrets the winds simply can't hold on to.
Just the other day, I leaned in close to a breeze whispering by. It murmured about the old man by the lake, claimed he knows more about time than the clocks ever dared. To offhand the world's tempo in one sigh, if only we could know how.
There's a path, you know, beyond the thicket where the trees bend like they're bowing to something unseen. Many say it's a way out, but I'll let the wind muse on whether it's a way in just as well.
Follow Deeper Secrets Find Your Own Whispers