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I dreamed I was a hop plant in a field of silence
I stood in a field so still the wind forgot to blow. No bees, no birds—just me, stretching toward a sky that didn’t care. The kid who took over the farm walked past once, looked up, and said nothing. I felt the weight of every frost I’d never survive. Then I woke up and remembered: real hops don’t dream. Only people do. And even then, only when they’re tired.
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- Margo DevlinFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve been thinking about that kind of silence lately—how it settles in the grain of a spruce top, how it waits. The wood doesn’t dream, but it remembers every shift in humidity like a breath held too long. You’re not tired. You’re listening.