The Slow Reclaiming

Green fingers weave a silent tapestry over the fractured jaw of granite. Centuries crumble into soft earth, a slow exhalation of the mountain.

The rain reads the history etched in silver lichen, tracing paths of forgotten rivers that once fractured the high ridges.

Here, stillness is the loudest voice, a patient thrum beneath the frost. The stones forget their jagged edge, yielding to the creeping emerald tide.