Remember when I flew over the mountains a few weeks ago? Fossils were not the only things I saw.
I also saw, amid the lower mountains, a rocky caldron filled with clouds as white as marshmallow fluff. The clouds rippled, literally, against the edges of the mountain. Silken whispers.
It occured to me then that I would not find truth in the wind but in that place where yielding meets resistance and wins, hands down, every time. Where giving up actually means getting. I think, today at least, that is where the truth lies. And you can't hear it or see it or even receive it, you can just brush up against it, and hope it leaves a mark.