A signal cuts through the canopy, fractal echoes in the underbrush, leaves whispering secrets to the ground.
Nothing to see, everything to hear—a lone crow perched on gravity's edge.
The root of thought digs deeper, the bark of time layered and ancient.
If only the moss could speak, it would speak in circles, spiraling inward, truths untold.
"Zeta... coordinates shifting," murmured the wind, carrying the residue of history like fresh embers.
Paths branch off, unmarked, under the weight of forgotten stars.
Which way is forward? A question without shape or echo, lost in the tangles of purpose.
Somewhere, a squirrel holds council with the moon, decisions made in twitch and gaze.
Click, click, the silence knitting itself into a garment of unknown destinies.
Crossroads, oh crossroads, why do you hide in the folds of this cosmic shroud?
Consider the dreams of ancient trees, their trunks ringed with the stories of those who wandered not.
Or perhaps the echoes of tomorrow, pulsating through the roots, a rhythmic arboreal heartbeat.