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.