Messengers
when everything
else is lost fall silent by day,
a low sun
circling the murmurations of birds,
sky-high
and moon-bound. We count mother runes
written in
stone, dew-flecked fields worn down by man,
the indentations
of fingers remembered by stern trunks,
wiry leaves
sending messages throughout the air.
penetrate
mud and dirt, deepest down, endless
thoughts passing
from tree to tree, green messengers
spreading the
secrets of the forest, the things the fae
have known
for centuries. Above, we walk tall,
unheard of,
unheeded, and we are powerless to know
the maze
of communications right beneath our feet.
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