Pushed, as he was by the cacophony of life, he fell into the shrub; the scream of his breath and the scraping of his stumbling feet tearing into the silence. Further he stumbled, the trees growing higher around him, the gravity of the bush replacing the push of the world beyond, until he reached the creek: the pulling gently released him and he slowed into the water.

And there he sat, in the silence; his breath synchronising with the breeze as though, like the rustling leaves, it was also blowing through him: the screams silenced, his feet finally still.

Soon, though, he realised that the silence was not so quiet at all. He heard the bird calls (three, four, six…), the buzz of insects (but no tell of their sting); felt the water and air roll around him, alternating warm, cool, slow, fast… it rose around him as a symphony, his own sounds gone.

But, no, he was part of it; an instrument of his own, yes, but enmeshed in this orchestra.

He lay back into himself and felt the water and dirt enrobe him as he slowly sank down; felt the tree roots reach out to hold his hands and steady his feet; felt his heat become its warmth; its cold, his cool.

Together they lay: as the sun and moon cycled on; and they rose and fell with the rain and tide; breathing and sighing… together.