They. People. They call themselves that. They think we can't see just because we have no eyes. Think we can't hear because we have no ears, or we can't feel because of our hard exterior. They think a lot of things. Mostly they are wrong. They think they understand the universe. Why the sky is blue. How life began. They think they are the only ones who think.

We see. We feel. We hear. We think. We have been here for a long time now. We wait and listen. We feel and understand so much more. But we keep our secrets. Our world is a different one. I see not with eyes, but with my instincts. An insect lands on a single of my 'leaf' (they call them that. We don't have words. We just are. But we have stories.You can hear us sing sometimes when it rains) I feel it. Know it, know it like something that needs each other. Like an intimate friend, lover, like a stranger who passes one's life and yet leaves a mark. Sometimes a pollen. Sometimes a responsibility like eggs full of life, waiting to come into being, waiting for food, to be able to fly. Waiting for them to come back, to pass by again. Like rain which runs down--every droplet a gem, every droplet a friend, every droplet with a song to exchange with the ground. So that it flows over my surface but will end up inside my veins. But they will leave again changed through our meeting. To fly away. They become clouds. People see clouds, think they are priviledge, that god favours only them. We feel every cloud, We make every cloud. Everything that makes a cloud we have grasped, grasped its shadows, its smoke. We breathed in, drank, exhaled them in a sigh.

Sometimes we dance to the music of the wind. We toss, turn, fly. We move rooted. A child lays her hands on me, and I feel her aura, she feels mine. Her weight on my roots, I know how big she is. People jogging past leave vibrations, drops of their sweats, they pant for breath. I know them too. Friends from a far, I know their news with the wind that brings their scent, tiny leaves, their seed. Sometimes, part of me travels on the wind, ride the rain, fly with the birds afar. But I know those parts of me still. Everything all returns to the earth from which I come. People forget. Forget how things come and go. Where they arise, to where they return. We don't. Time is layered for us, never a line. Time is every ring around my body. Time is the falling and blooming of my being. Time is the coming and going of the seasons. Even now, I feel the vibrations in the air of a piano piece. Vibrations on metal strings which is amplified through one of our bodies. They call 'wood'. They with ears hear only the external sounds, what they call music. But we feel every note. The pain. The bitter, the sweet. The resonating vibrations which echo in things people only see as hollow. Empty. But to us, it is what we know as secrets.