Siatola Weaver

Where the woods breathe.

The woods don't shout like cities do, they speak in hush and hum, in leaf-tongue whispers overhead, in the beat of beetle drums. Sunlight spills in broken gold, caught on every seam, stitching shadows to the ground like pieces of a dream. The trees stand tall as ancient thought, their roots curled. Their branches writing quiet maps of an older, softer world. A breeze turns pages in the ferns, the moss remembers rain, and somewhere far, a wood thrush calls a silver, bending strain. If you walk slow, the forest knows. It matches breath for breath,lends you its calm, unknots your chest,and steals your hurrys weight. for in the woods,time loosebs up,becomes a drifting thing. Just light and bark and steady heart and everything listening. and when you leave, a part remains, tied to root and hood. a small, green pulse you carry home: the quiet of the woods.