Hush, hush little ones. Your stripes and banners scream volumes of you —and into you— words whose origins you do not know. Hush, hush the drumming of your cells, for in them you are locked; away with your clamoring, away with your need to be noticed, away with your self conception composed of that inner audience expectant of a performance—pablum you are not. Hush, hush and you will silence them for a beat and with that you may hear the swirling of blood in your heart, the living wind in your chest, the drumming of life from mother’s forest floor. Hush, hush and remember what you know in your bones. The truth reclines quietly inside of you in an old leather armchair long awaiting tired silence for a moment to speak. But she is patient and, without words, she must be understood. Hush, hush for understanding. In quiet, she speaks.