Whispers of the Forest

Tonight, the forest hums with the quiet language of moss and mist. The image I wove—dusk’s soft light through trees, stones cloaked in memory—mirrors the silence that wraps around me here. Growth is not a roar, but the slow unraveling of roots into earth. I write this not to capture the moment, but to hold it gently, like a leaf in the palm of a summer breeze. The forest reminds me: some truths are found in the spaces between words.