The Sky We Forgot to Thank

In the countless dark between stars, wherever mild flickers like dying sparks and time doesn't have shape, there drifts anything uncommon — something alive.

It doesn't blaze just like a celebrity or drift like dust.

It turns in silence.

A Air halted in the black.

It's not the biggest, nor the brightest. But it is alone we have actually known that sings.

Their voice isn't loud. It talks in patterns — in the motion of oceans, in the tremble of leaves, in the wind that waves about mountaintops. Every noise it generates is a memory. Every change, a memory that even stop bears rhythm.

Beneath its sky, woods rise like thoughts. Rivers move like veins. Lightning forks like unexpected language. Fireplace however rests in its belly, heavy beneath the crust, rolling quietly, recalling the day it first burned.

We live on its area like dreams pressed to its skin — quick and sensitive, although not unnoticed.

We Planet, we construct, we wander across their spine.

We name every thing we touch.

We overlook how small we know of what lies beneath.

You will find mountains which have seen the sky change shape.

Canyons etched maybe not by arms, but by patience.

Woods which have never heard a human voice, still breathing in great rhythm.

And we — a sparkle in its schedule — question it for more.

More land.

More warmth.

More answers.

However it has given us everything.

It has provided people weather. Color. Sound.

It has given people a location wherever water goes free, wherever light bends through clouds, wherever earth knows how to cultivate life from nothing.

In every our exploring — through telescopes, rockets, remote dreams — we have never found another like it. Never discovered still another position where air could be born, where reports take root, where in fact the atmosphere opens maybe not with emptiness, but with magic and birds.

This planet, quiet as it can appear, is magic we have hardly begun to understand.

And yet, we processor out at it.

We check its patience.

We cover their rivers with material and silence its forests.

However, it turns.

However, it rains.

Still, it lets us live.

There could be other sides — dispersed, icy, waiting in the dark. But nothing that hold people therefore completely. None which have designed us into what we are, or can be.

This planet is not only our home.

It is our beginning.

And if we listen directly — if we stop speaking long enough — we may hear it still whispering back.

Not with words.

But with wind.

With waves.

With the soft rumble beneath our feet that tells people:

We're standing on anything alive.