Reminiscing about my hike, the other day, that included walking down a sand bar along the river, my tracks criss-crossing those of deer, turkey, turtle, and raccoon; as the hound picked up and chased the trail of each, disappearing off into the willows, before bounding back out to track the next scent. And, while she did that, I entered into impromptu *ceremony* when I picked up this bone. It could have been any bone, but it happened to be this one, simple and nondescript, and it settled into my hand so familiar and comfortable, warm from the sun and spirit-life, like it had been waiting, who knows how long, for just my hand to hold it. And, as I did, I became aware of a sound, like a whisper, that grew steadily louder, richer, turned rhythmic, patterned and random, more complex, until it was a language. The dialect of bone, telling a story that was of great importance to the teller, that humble form. But, sadly, I could not decipher it. I couldn't understand anything in the telling. It was spoken in a language long ago forgotten by my kind, if we ever knew it. I don't even know from whom the bone came, which spirit-being was doing the narrating. I simply sat on the sand, and listened. Reverent. Respectful. Whatever needed to be known, I allowed the tale to be told, the bone in my hand held aloft, high, so that its voice, so long ago silenced by our constant noise, sand, time, and the river, could travel the current, both air and water. There is so much information, bone-knowing, in these stories that have been lost, to us. We have silenced a great many voices in the Natural World, by forgetting their languages and becoming too loud, too removed. There is magic in being still, in listening, and in putting aside the self, to allow those voices to be heard. That I didn't understand the words doesn't matter. I listened, and that I could even hear was more than enough.