Rain poured out over the glen—

as mist engulfed the green landscape, I wondered what language

the land thinks in. Wild rivers, cradled valleys, aching hillsides—

what are they thinking as they see us here? Does the earth have a word

for the rain? Maybe I am too anthropocentric, maybe the land has a way

of speaking that is far beyond anything human language could express.

What is semantics to an oak tree? Syntax to the grass?

I have been thinking too much about language,

about the words of myself and others. I wish I could experience the world

in true silence—no thoughts, no memory, no me.

Maybe then, I could know the rain like the earth does.

Maybe then, I could look at the bugs in the dirt and wish for nothing more.