Even as we speak, our silences begin to root themselves. Blind little feelers, they move with a sly persistence till an unspoken word strikes water. Or stone.
As for that leafy business in the sky, that dazzle and jostle- it’s harmless, a benign friction that passes for speech though public, and not their own: the leaves repeat only what the wind has told them.
Even as we speak, the roots press their questions, reach deeper into silence. Each day they grow denser and more detailed in their grasp of the dark.