The One Beneath Our Feet

Out in the great black, among cold stars and countless stop, there is a place wherever mild details stone, where oceans breathe, and wherever air hums with the memory of trees.

It spins alone — maybe not loudly, not rapidly — but with a flow older than time. Hills rise from hidden fire. Woods expand skyward, drinking from neglected rain. Beneath land, roots pose through levels of Planet, touching bones and techniques extended because looked to dust.

Nothing otherwise we've observed carries rivers that remember glaciers, winds that remember the design of continents, or skies that when bore the fat of magic untouched by names.

Here, living learned to examine from water.

Here, shade was born.

Here, stop is never empty.

We talk about planning elsewhere, of obtaining yet another, of achieving beyond. However in all of the deep looking, in every signal delivered into the emptiness, we have found only silence. Number answer. No echo.

Only this world responds.

Just that place sustains.

Just this land welcomes the form of our footsteps.

When, we gave it a title — an individual term to keep its weight.

But names aren't enough.

This is the owner of each air, every storage, every start we have ever known.

There may be others.

But we've just this one.