Of course there are runes, bones, stones; look no further than your palms, stare at those sip kissed and wasting leaves, peer into a clear glass of water.
Of course little pictures are etched out on rock walls.
Everything speaks.
Everything.
Space is never still but you can get there in the language of the quivering air, off just enough from the drone of traffic and incessant human talking,
—–to where even the dead, tall stalks of grass release information and recognize you as their own.
All at once you know.
These words are not quaint, or primitive, or simple and they are produced not in syllables made from breath over vocal cords, but in seed pod packets and pockets of not yet birthed insects
dormant in the cold season, yet still knowing,
in a place where the wind and water and salt and sand swirl into inky caldrons, waiting for you in this form.
Life as Improv 
You write with your left hand. Your words seemed etched. My mouth has to work to sound them out, your sentences insist that I chew each bite. I am in agreement which such style as yours. Your syntax rings true. Grasping after grasshoppers in the grass comes closer than rings of Saturn turning crosswise…
oh, your words are so delicious to me, a dark truffle response, rich, earthy, experiential, helps me romp in the wet grass instead of flying out to space. feeling obliged in a good way to tocksin.
Very, very beautiful.
thank you, Hariod.
Ohhhhh I love when you write like this and my brain throws up its hands and my heart soars and my soul nods its happy head in excitement and points its illuminated fingertips toward the computer screen and sings “Yes! This. This!”
I feel like this came from deep, deep down. From moments of staring at the hands, to staring at whatever items are around, to staring up at another human, to tears in the eyes. Yes.
A, I know that you know of that Sometimes when it gets still enough inside outside within without. Never never are we alone here yet we are also not bothered by anyone for the presence with us is true and silent – hmmm – remind me when I forget. xo! m
Everything speaks, and I love the way you remind us what it’s saying. Dormant in the cold season– gone somewhere else, but waiting… knowing… Of course. Of course your words are seeds born of the ground, husks vacated by a passing spirit, runes on a glowing tablet… What else would even make sense?
Michael
Thank you, Michael, So funny what pops in the brain; for me right now it is this: “I am amazed and I know not what to say.” I was in the play A Midsummer Night’s Dream a million years ago as Hermia, and her words pop in my mind now; why? I think because the husks that spoke to me were in such an isolated place, so far from other humans, that to be joined here now by a few, in that space, leaves me amazed. Quietly we can hear so many things speaking, together.
It’s a beautiful noise…
When replies cross the internets at the same time, it is like two hawks circling in the same sky. 🙂