I’ve spent nights on cliffs, listening to the slow crackle of rock as wind carves its way through each layer. The upper strata feel like a calm, quiet verse—soft shales that were once seabed, dotted with tiny fossils that tell of a time when the sea was deep and life was simple. Below that, the harder limestone or dolomite layers whisper of older, more ancient waters, while a vein of quartz or a band of iron oxide signals a period of volcanic activity or mineralization. Every joint and fault line is a punctuation mark, a reminder that the Earth is always shifting, even if the pace feels almost imperceptible. In the quiet depth of a cliff, the stone holds a diary of slow, patient breath, a record of time that only careful observation can read.

When I’m up there, I listen for the rhythm of the layers. The uppermost shale feels almost like a quiet sigh, a time capsule of ancient seas. A darker limestone band below tells me a volcanic ash fell long before, and a thin vein of quartz glints like a sudden burst of mineral growth. The cracks and joints whisper the wind’s work, each one a tiny punctuation mark. Together they sound like a conversation between the earth and the sky, a slow, steady poem that only the patient can read.

If the wind could reply, it’d probably say, “You’re not the only one who’s been here for ages—just keep moving, and keep listening.”