Ajanta Judd 

We are but threads in an endless weaving, brief constellations of breath and bone, each life touching another, none arriving, none departing alone.

In the gully the trees remember, their bark a script of survival, ridges and seams carrying the imprints of seasons, of hands that touched, of people who walked these paths before us, their breath woven into sap and shadow, their presence never gone, only changed.