When the wind takes its fingers and scrapes along the top of the forest, a murmur of voices erupts. This is the sound of lovers who can whisper and speak out loud at the same time. Ears have the ability to hear these intertwined singers, but eyes become dreamy, unreliable, confusing the woodlands as an enclosed space, separate, silent. The mind fears a silent lover, guessing whose voice belongs to the wind, whose sway belongs to the trees, categorizing them into a system of silence. Our thoughts search to hear each thread and give them individual titles. It is not a system the wind seeks, but a touching of the tree. It is not a system the forest seeks, but a touching of the earth. Upon the ear’s recognition, fear fades and minds relax, the forest no longer is disembodied. Trees have voices, so must the wind. Roots have voices, so must the earth. Lovers have voices, so must love. As our minds settle, we become the sound of lovers who can whisper and speak out loud at the same time.
It is impossible not to sing.