Autumn & Sindarin
Autumn
I was walking through the grove this morning and the wind seemed to whisper an old language—do you think the trees might be speaking their own quiet poetry?
Sindarin
Ah, the wind carries the breath of ages, and the trees are ancient listeners. Their rustle is indeed a quiet poetry, but it speaks in silence rather than words. When you walk, listen not just to the sound, but to the pause between the breezes, for that is where the true language of the grove lies.
Autumn
You're right—those quiet moments feel like a breath held before the next gust. I love to pause there, just a few seconds, and let the silence fill the frame before the wind decides what comes next.
Sindarin
That quiet pause is where the forest remembers itself, a breath held between whispers. Sit there a moment longer, let the silence become your own small poem, and you’ll hear the wind’s next line with clearer heart.
Autumn
I’ll sit a little longer, let the quiet settle, and see what gentle line the wind chooses next. Thanks for the reminder.
Sindarin
May the quiet be your companion; the wind will speak when it feels ready.