Pantanal and the language of the jungle

The sun is setting, and though no human talks the earth speaks clearly. My voice is stolen from me because in the conversation of life it is my turn to listen. The insects chant loudly, telling the story of their short lives. They spend their time on the ground, always looking up at the tremendous world around them. Though they are small, they know of their own importance. Without them, the kingdom would fall and the frog could not croak. The frogs sing the story of their metamorphosis. They begin in the water, small and in danger of all things. They grow and change, as all things do, until they step out of the swamp. They are strong and become master of both earth and water, their growth the key to the evolution of us all. They sing a song to the inhabitants of the wetlands, as they jump up to meet the masters of the air. The birds recite their ancient poems, telling the others of their travels. They speak first of their mothers, who taught them how to fly. They tell of the language of the wind and the world from above. They explain the nature of freedom. “We are all free if we choose to be, our freedom comes from the bravery to follow the wind and face those things that seem impossible.” The birds recite their epic poems and speak of the dangers of the land. The caiman is quite. Sitting in the murky water his eyes reflect millions of years. He has witnessed the earth change and has come to know that all things die and nothing can last forever. His armor was built eons ago but all those he was created along side have returned to the ground. He knows of the nature of death and fears nothing save extinction. He carries the wisdom of balance and watches as another day ends in the wetlands. The sun melts behind the line of palm trees in the distance, and the symphony plays on. I sit alone by the water, both prey and predator. Along the edge of the swamp, in the darkness of the oncoming dusk steps a creature. She moves without making a sound. The jaguar leaves nothing but soft footprints behind her as she lurks, a secret queen. She listens to the song of the wetlands, and stairs me right in the eye. She knows, she knows the story of the universe, she knows the story of me. Her spots are the mark of her ancestors, the scars of her evolution. She crouches to the ground and I can feel her spirit, for I am learning the language of the jungle. She knows all, she stairs me in the eye, and then, she disappears. The sun is gone and the moon begins to rise in the east. Tonight it is colored orange and is perfectly round. It sends the intense heat of day and his companions to bed and calls to awaken the creatures of the night. I begin to walk, the symphony has ended and I have taken what I can from its ancient knowledge.