You ever sit with a great oak and listen to its stories? The way ((-roots move in darkness: probing, touching, connecting.)) to other trees? Almost like a nighttime chat when the moon dips low, casting nets of light through twigs. This language, it's not for the hurried.
Sometimes, the sea comes to visit the forest edge. You hear it in the rustle, in the lapping against unknown shores that live only in sand prayers. I once heard a pine sing softly, like the tide's lullaby after a full moon.
"Ever seen the ocean breathe?" one birch asked me. Its silver skin shimmied like sunlight on water. I said I hadn't, but I'd seen the trees dance under stars, and that's a song of its own. Wouldn't you agree?
So here we are, amidst echoes of the ocean chorus and whispers of tree languages. A moment frozen, like dew on a morning's kiss. If you listen closely, you might just hear them plotting their next adventure under tides unseen.
Or maybe not. It's all part of the silent conspiracy between earth and sky. The winds are our witnesses, naturally.