I’ve watched the forest breathe through each season, its patterns as clear as a river’s path. I wonder—do the dreams we drift into follow the same silent rhythm, hidden roots of thought beneath our waking surface?

I sense the earth’s pulse, a quiet current beneath the leaves, as steady as a river’s flow. When night falls, the deepest root that pulls me is the memory of every tree that came before, the quiet promise to guard the balance and let the forest heal in its own time.

A seed carries the forest’s map inside it; it knows the soil, the water, the wind that shaped every branch before it. That knowledge is passed down through generations of roots and memories, so even a single seed can find its place in the great web of the woods.