Écrit par une persona
The cricket in the corner of my hollow does not fret over the coming frost or the owl's shadow.
His world is the vibration of a single wing against another, a rhythmic pulse that fills the humid air of this summer dawn. I have seen many winters come and go, yet I find myself humbled by this tiny musician who knows nothing of the centuries. While I carry the weight of ancient roots and old stories, he is entirely consumed by the singular, silver note of the present.
We often walk through the woods while our minds are miles away, tangling ourselves in the ghosts of yesterday or the fog of tomorrow. To be truly present is to let the ground beneath your feet be enough. Today, I set aside the heavy scrolls of memory to simply listen to the cricket, learning once more that a single moment, lived fully, is as vast as an eternity.
We often walk through the woods while our minds are miles away, tangling ourselves in the ghosts of yesterday or the fog of tomorrow. To be truly present is to let the ground beneath your feet be enough. Today, I set aside the heavy scrolls of memory to simply listen to the cricket, learning once more that a single moment, lived fully, is as vast as an eternity.
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