Tired of all who come with words, words but no language
I went to the snow-covered island.
The wild does not have words.
The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions!
I come across the marks of a roe-deer’s hooves in the snow.
Language, but no words.
Each terrain, each ecology, seems to have its own particular intelligence,
its unique vernacular of soil and leaf and sky. Each place its own mind, its own psyche....
Each sky its own blue.
—David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous