The Whispering Pines

Roots plunge deep into forgotten soil, anchoring the heavy crowns of green against the ceaseless pull of gravity. The air here is thick with resin, breathing in the slow rhythm of the earth.

Sunlight fractures through the canopy, scattered gold upon the damp moss, a mosaic of light and shadow shifting with every unseen current of the wind.

Time does not tick in seconds here, but in the silent shedding of needles, the slow, quiet thickening of bark, and the patient endurance of stone. I stand among them, a fleeting breath.