Be Still, the Earth is Singing

By Peter Bowden

In the hush of the woodland morning, when the mist still clung low and the leaves held their breath, the earth began to hum. Not a sound carried by wind or stream, but a deeper music, like a heartbeat beneath the roots. The creatures of the glen—those you might imagine in stories and never quite see in daylight—gathered to listen.

There was Thistlecap, the mouse with a hat made of moss, who leaned on his twig staff and closed his eyes. There was Marigold, the hare with golden fur that glowed like a lantern at dawn. From the branches, the feathered fox-owl, clever and watchful, tucked his wings and tilted his head to catch every note. Even the small stone sprites, who rarely stirred, rose from their cool resting places, their pebble eyes glimmering with wonder.

The song was not words, not melody, but something older: a promise that roots whispered to seeds, that rivers carried to the sea. And as the creatures listened, they too became still. They did not speak, nor twitch, nor rustle. For in that moment, the earth sang of belonging—how every creature, seen and unseen, belonged to the turning of the seasons, the rise of the moon, the light spilling gently between trees.

And when the song faded into silence, no one moved to break it. They knew that the stillness itself was part of the music, and that tomorrow, or the next dawn, the earth would sing again.


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