Say in an ancient place, in an ancient time, we’re on the council. Say we’ve assembled to apply very old language to the question of the future.
Our words are few and heavy, modified by moves of the arms and hands, looks of the eyes, and the back’s position relative to the ground and fire, and the face, one person to the next.
Centers of words can be held by sense in the body. Beginnings of words can be punched, their ends rolled or delivered echoing what’s close. You might hear whistles or clicks, pops or groans, snapping fingers, rattles of snake or gourd, thump of a log or walking stick on bone.
Words can be released instantaneously past smacked lips, topographic shifts of the face, in lift or fall of pitches when the old breaks through or presences conjoin, speaking through words.
The language is a mystery, when it talks into thought and the speaker hears its standing. We know the words well enough and progressions of phrase. We know this enough to respect it, the sacred trust of it.
So language works, as time spreads. Current time slows within the ancient place for which we have no name. It’s where we live, within us, not something else. It’s so close what grows outside is in.