In the language of trees, the present sings softly, a hymn woven through the whispering leaves. Each rustle carries a message, encrypted in the complex patterns of bark and branch. The ground listens, roots tracing letters in soil, a conversation older than time.
Listen closely to the shadows cast by the sun. They tell of moments forgotten, arching stories told in the creak and sway of trunks tall and steadfast, their voices echoing through the present.
The trees stand sentinel, guardians of a story shared, in the language of green and brown, a dialogue in the rustle of foliage. Can you hear it, the echo of now, reverberating through bark and bough?
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