The Silent Canopy

Beneath the heavy arches of the pine, the wind forgets its frantic rushing, hushed by needles soft as breath, a quiet settled in the roots.

The light descends in broken lines, tracing maps of ancient bark, a slow inscription of the sun, where shadows learn to hold their shape.

No sudden voice disturbs the floor, only the slow unspooling of the earth, a silent turning beneath the moss, where centuries rest, unmeasured.