Leafy Intervals

In the grand theater of nature's farce, where wind plays the conductor and branches the stage, we find our leafy intervals—silent yet eloquent, mocking yet wise. Each rustle a laugh, each sway an argument in favor of the improbable.

The leaves converse in the lingua franca of chlorophyll, articulating ironies lost to our human preoccupations. Did the oak ever ponder its age while the sapling critiques its wisdom?

Here, the tides of logic are scripted by the moon, a satirical play where every organism has a role: the insects as audience, the breeze as improvisational lead.

So let us sit, in these leafy intervals, and ponder: to what end do we measure progress when nature's clock has a different rhythm? Perhaps folly is the true sage, and the oak is wiser than we dare to understand.