The forest speaks

It is dark now. Man-made lights shine at a few places. But for the most, there is darkness.

The trees look blurred. The leaves merge into one another. Far away, music blares. Music to which men and women dance, music to which they drink and forget their woes. But here, despite that noise, there is silence. The crickets creek. Despite their creeks, there is silence.

In that silence, the forest speaks. It speaks of the trees and flowers which have gone to sleep, which have withdrawn into themselves, as if their souls travel distant lands in dream, while their bodies remain here, dark, withdrawn, asleep.

In that utter stillness, the forest tells a tale of desolation, of solitude, of infinite silence where an absence is present. That which is not, is here. And darkness has its own glow.

The sun has left us, but the moon holds us, and the moon rules the night. Soaking us in its silver light, it gives life to the dead, awareness to the asleep, energy to the dull.

I have watched the moon since I was a small boy. Today, the moon watches me back. In our long mutual gaze, I am distracted by a cat peeping at me from behind a tree, watching me curiously, her whiskers full and alive, her eyes impossibly wondrous.

Through this cat, through the moonlight, through the crickets, through the infinite, deafening silence, through the dark darkness, the forest speaks.

 

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~ by tdcatss on September 24, 2016.

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