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 