Beneath our legs, anything ancient listens. It generally does not speak in language or symbols, in the lower hum of tectonic dishes, in the slow drift of continents, in the way roots discover the darkness without eyes. We go across their skin, never knowing how serious their storage runs. Every feed of mud has broken from the mountain. Every drop of water was when part of a storm no body remembers. The World remembers every thing — it really does not speak it aloud.

Their style is hidden alone — the type of stop that echoes. You are able to sense it when the breeze dies and the trees stay totally still. You can hear it in the stillness after magic, when actually birds seem to pause. This stop is not empty. It's saturated in thought, full of age, full of presence. The Planet isn't quiet since it is asleep. It's quiet because it is listening — to us, to the air, to itself.

We're loud. We load the air with engines, sirens, voices, audio, machines. But none of this sound basins into the ground. The Earth listens perhaps not with ears but with patience. It waits for what comes after our noise — what stays when our houses fall, when our signals fade, when the satellites burn up in the top of sky. And when the period comes, it will still be here — however turning, however blooming in places untouched, still whispering in ways only the wind and the sources can hear.

We think of Earth as solid, as unmoving, as anything we stay on. But it is a lot more than that. It's a human anatomy — living, moving, breathing in time also slow for us to see. It doesn't yell, it doesn't beg. It endures. And for the reason that quiet stamina lies a power far higher than fire or ton: the energy of something that's nothing to prove. Something that's previously lasted the birth of the Planet, the death of forests, the stop after meteors.

This isn't just land. It's not just rock and water. It is a keeper. A cradle. A memory that does not forget. Somewhere serious under, under the stress and rock, it still murmurs the history of how everything began.

But it won't ever inform us in words.
We must figure out how to listen in silence.