Blessed are you, the threads that bind the world. You are the earth's slow bloodstream, a silent, branching artery, unballasted — only the ceaseless passing of phloem-rivers, sugars handed down like alms, phosphorus drawn thin as breath, water shuttled from far-flung provinces of stone to answer the drought-stricken prayers for rain. No chambers to your heart, no walls, only the space between spaces: the fungal thread, a capillary crawling through the dark, and the trees a great slow pulse above it, the whole forest one unhurried circulation. Nothing here believes in separateness. The forest floor is one skin stretched thin over the dead, and you are the needle and the thread, stitching stump to sapling, oak to orchid, until the wood is less a stand of trees and more a collective sigh of praise, a language made entirely of exchange. Praise to the mycelial hush. Praise to the dark that feeds the light. Praise to the fungus that will not be razed.