It was in valleys like this that the land spoke. The earth itself shared its language of place and time. The when and where of life was known. The earth spoke in a forgotten tongue like fingers speak to hands, like hands speak to arms, like arms speak to chest and chest sings the songs of fingers, knows the beat of feet and feels the soles' words of water, roots and rock. This song was known to the singer even when unsung, sprung from the same womb, as close as cadence, as rhythm as rain, as known as the nails of one's hands, unnoticed for its constant presence. Its lack is the death of us all, its dearth is a black wall that hides us from our selves, our once embraced, now banished, bare and prodigal pantheons.