I come here to listen,
to nestle in the curve of
the roots in a soft hollow
of pine needles, then lean
my bones against the column
of white pine, to turn off the
voice in my head untl I can
hear the voices outside it:
the shhh of wind in needles,
water trickling over rock,
nuthatch tapping, chipmunks
digging, beechnut falling,
mosquito in my ear, and something more ---
something that is not me, for which we have
no language, the wordless being of others
in which we are never alone.
- Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweatgrass