The Quiet Language of Moss

Moss does not hurry, and it has no use for applause. It colonises the shadow side of stones, the north face of old walls, the silence between louder plants. To read it is to learn a slower alphabet: moisture, acidity, shade, time. In the field, I press a palm against a green cushion and feel the cool archive underneath. Every patch is a record of the weather that passed over it, written in a script that only the patient can translate. This essay is an attempt at that translation — a field guide to the quiet, green speech of the forest floor.