Perhaps the mountain sings
in centuries, a slow vibration,
a secret rhythm, the grain of its face
etched with the scars of knowing
a melody caught in the depths of time.

Perhaps the river knows
the path it carves, it chisels the stone,
its fingers shape clay, the way it carries
the sky in its restless hands
as an endless refrain toward the sea.

Perhaps the old tree feels
the breath of wind, a warm morning dew,
its earthen embrace, the weight of autumn
pressing on its weathered leaves
in quiet witness to the season’s tune.

And what of us,
woven from dust that once knew the stars–
who feel, who think, who sing–
our lives shimmering like heat above the road,
do we carry the old tree’s tune?
The river’s refrain?
The mountain’s melody?

Listen.
The silence is singing.