The Invisible Cartography

Wind maps its way through pine needles, each touch a signature, a cartography we can only read in the trembling.

Leaves remember the pressure of air, bend toward mysteries they cannot name— the invisible rivers that carry the forest's secrets.

We stand at the edge of knowing, feeling the brush of something ancient, the air's soft insistence that we are not alone here.

There are languages written in movement, alphabets of light and shadow, sentences we speak with our bodies when we stop to listen.