Banyan Thorns - Omens Woven In The Undergrowth

There are omens woven in the undergrowth… I sit with the roots, bare feet pressed into dirt. The air hums with a chorus of cicadas, their voices rising and falling like waves of heat, a tide of sound that drowns the edges of thought, their wings whispering a language older than mine. A squirrel cracks a seed, hidden in the bramble. A deer moves slow through ferns, its body brushing silence into song. The veil of green answers like a ghost crossing the threshold. Every call is more than call, every step more than step— omens woven in the undergrowth, a liturgy sung in fur and feather, in the patient hush of moss. The woodpecker drums on hollow bark, an echo that rattles in my chest. Owls call to each other, their voices heavy with dusk, carrying secrets between the trees. Every branch, every feather, every small breath threads me deeper into the solace of this place. Every call is more than call, every step more than step— omens woven in the undergrowth, a liturgy sung in fur and feather, in the patient hush of moss. I close my eyes. and the forest does not vanish. It sharpens. The unseen leans close, pressing against my skin, settling in my chest I am not separate. I am not stranger. I am among the undergrowth, listening, until the silence begins to sing, until the forest names me as its own. Every call is more than call, every step more than step— They are omens woven in the undergrowth