This land has its beliefs and its thoughts. One can hear the land thinking and dreaming in leaf and mud, hills and waters. The strong, fierce, gentle soul of the land is in the grace of draping pine branch, in the tangle of the willow saplings at the edge of the ravine, in a spray of flowers blooming amid the grey-green wormwood.
It is easy enough to miss this, not to hear the thoughts of the land, to pass by hearing only one’s own thoughts, the speech of men echoing and clanging within one’s mind.
The black one in the sky speaks. All day the bee speaks in the brush-land, in the great nothingness on the other side of the gardens, the leaf unwinds its dreams in the shifting light of the woodlands.
Is it knowledge if we cannot name it: another human speak, whisper, write it down?