The wind carried snippets of conversations too ancient for humans to understand. Beneath the canopy, where light was a gentle thief, trees spoke in tongues of sinew and bark. Listen, through the hollow trunk, where the world compresses into one heartbeat—a rhythm etched into every ring.
"Be the root, not the leaf," murmurs the elder birch, its voice creaking like the last sound of autumn leaves before burying into the earth.
They shared a language encrypted in the annual cycles of growth, a binary of light and moisture captured in overlapping cycles of sap and shadow. Learn the hidden lexicon in tender audio or perhaps find solace in logs of deep insight.
The old groves remain, forsaken in their solitude, yet eternally rooted in the present moment.