sferic

The dichotomous song of the cicada rises and falls in its own rhythm in time to the breath of trees. Birdsong is but a whisper--it cannot compete with the siren song of the cicada.

Red squirrels announce my arrival, mouths open wide and bodies rigid for their gutteral chirping.

Crickets, invisible on the rocks before me, betray their presence with the flapping of their winglets. "We are mountain birds," they flap, "and this is our domain!"

The chorus of cicada continues over and above all sounds. This autumn insect wails through September days--a reminder of things to come. Cool mornings, less daylight, and a time of quiet hibernation for all creatures.

Tree and moss perfume the air with a scent ingrained in my DNA. Every breath I take brings me deeper into the soil, my own roots soaking in Her energy.

The World cries out to me, "Hear me! Touch me! See the beauty I provide! When you despair, take comfort in me and I will hold you as my own child. My energy and love surround you; rest on me. I will provide stability. Breathe me. I will fill you with peace. You are my child; let me in and you will never be alone."