Beneath the boughs, where light dances in dappled whispers, we'll translate silence into prose. The elder oak, she stretches her limbs, a gentle semaphore — how do you speak, I ponder, through rings unseen?
A leaf, when fallen, knows the secret of ascent; whispers aligned to the north, reaching out for the echo of yesterday's sun. Bark holds memory; its encrypted language scribbling tales across my spine — tectonic thoughts of root and soil.
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