The tides of your breath, the anthill shimmering with motion, the chicken scratching her language into the soil, the fly, drunk on light, thrumming and bumping against the glass— you opened the box of quiet inside. You found these things.
The Story Keeper: I have written many love letters to the land. I send them by clouds of tiny birds or through the rain. The land doesn’t know this, but it is always on my mind. I carry it around … Continue reading
Sometimes there are no words.