Wilted Voice

I sit within the outskirts of nature. At the edge of her beauty, where society caresses the wild. Her song is filled with many elements that comprises the whole. The rolling of water over stone, the gentle breeze that brushes the trees, the delightful conversations among birds. Each a single instrument within her orchestra. Occasionally there is a mild interruption reminding me that I am not completely lost in her aura and presence. After these brief interludes of humanities footprints, I am once again surrounded by the sound of life. As she breathes into my lungs and whispers her words I wonder if this is but a taste of truth. What realization would I find in the full submersion of her song. The song that has always been the backdrop of our industrious and restless society. Our species once understood and loved her, but we have forgotten. We have fashioned our own nature within us that discards the loyal and proven, only craving what we haven't obtained. We ignore the comforts that lies within the natural world, accustomed only to the fabricated comforts and conveniences. How obscure does the crunching of a leaf or the crackling of a stick beneath our feet become when the only sounds that fill our days are that of machinery and technology. We forget how it all began. We forget ourselves.