I need to escape to the woods

Surround myself with aromas sweet

The groan of pine bending in the wind

Gurgle of creeks bubbling by

Soft loam underfoot kicking up its musty scent

I take a seat between the ferns

The ground is soft and damp beneath me

The crunch of small twigs I didn't see

So much life in these woods

I wrap my arms around me knees

And close my eyes

There is a language that is spoken

You can only hear if you are patient

The foliage begins whispering as the breeze tickles it

Trees have guttural complaints as they moan and pop

Complaining to each other of old age and bygone eras

Saplings chirp back and forth about their vigor and youth

Prickling the bark of old madrone

Even the wind has its own language

It dances playfully amongst the leaves

Rustling them and caressing them as they fall

The wind winds its way like a snake

Between the blades of grass

Occasionally creating squeals and chirps

Then it finds the creek where it pulls waters hair like an adolescent boy

It stretches water over rocks

Bubbling and boiling over sticks and trunks that the wind has pushed in

Yes,

Of all the languages spoken the wind is the oldest and most juvenile

The winds whispers carry a multitude of languages on its tongue

Gained through centuries of play

As I sit here between the ferns I wish I could speak these languages

Maybe one day.