Where the Ground Still Breathes

In the countless black between stars, wherever light flickers like dying embers and time does not have any form, there floats anything rare — anything alive.

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

It converts in silence.

A Air stopped in the black.

It's perhaps not the largest, nor the brightest. But it is alone we have ever identified that sings.

Its voice isn't loud. It speaks in designs — in the motion of oceans, in the tremble of leaves, in the wind that curls around mountaintops. Every sound it creates is just a memory. Every change, a memory that actually silence bears rhythm.

Beneath their air, trees increase like thoughts. Streams shift like veins. Lightning forks like unexpected language. Fireplace still rests in its belly, heavy under the crust, churning quietly, remembering your day it first burned.

We survive their floor like dreams forced to its skin — brief and delicate, however, not unnoticed.

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

We title every thing we touch.

We overlook how little we all know of what lies beneath.

You will find hills which have watched the atmosphere change shape.

Canyons etched maybe not by hands, but by patience.

Woods that have never seen an individual voice, still breathing in perfect rhythm.

And we — a flicker in its schedule — ask it for more.

More land.

More warmth.

More answers.

But it has provided people everything.

It's provided people weather. Color. Sound.

It's provided people a location wherever water works free, wherever mild bends through clouds, wherever earth knows how to develop life from nothing.

In most our looking — through telescopes, rockets, remote desires — we've never found another like it. Never found still another position wherever breath could be born, wherever reports get root, where in actuality the sky opens perhaps not with emptiness, but with thunder and birds.

This Planet, calm as it may look, is a miracle we have barely started to understand.

And yet, we chip away at it.

We test its patience.

We cover its rivers with metal and stop its forests.

Still, it turns.

However, it rains.

Still, it lets us live.

There might be different worlds — spread, freezing, waiting in the dark. But none that hold us therefore completely. Nothing that have formed us in to what we're, or could be.

This planet is not only our home.

It is our beginning.

And when we hear directly — if we end talking long enough — we would hear it however whispering back.

Perhaps not with words.

But with wind.

With waves.

With the delicate rumble beneath our legs that tells people:

We're sitting on anything alive.