Seems like these females don’t take no crap from no one.
https://www.livescience.com/animals/land-mammals/a-forest-with-bonobos-has-never-been-so-quiet-most-extreme-case-of-violence-in-hippie-species-recorded-with-females-ganging-up-on-male-in-unprecedented-attack?utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pushly&utm_campaign=All%20Push%20Subscribers

Spirit of the Dying Sun

It stands - unmoving,
like a spell pressed into the earth.
Antlers stretch like ancient branches,
cradling the burning sun behind.

Not a deer
but the memory of forests,
the whispered prayer of ancestors,
the heartbeat of stone.

That red glow
not just sunset,
but a wound from a thousand years,
a fire from a dream that never died.

Its eyes
not looking at us,
but through us,
toward the spirits still walking
in the wind of forgotten seasons.

Serin Alar

🖊Poem: Piahn

Where the White Wolf Rests

Beneath the thick leaves,
She meets the white wolf
in a place where
Fear has no voice.

Their foreheads touch—
a vow spoken
without sound,
yet understood by
every trembling thing in the forest.

He trusts her stillness;
She trusts his wild.
Together they form
a quiet shelter
for all the wanderers
who carry wounds
invisible to the eye.

For loyalty, this pure
does not need words—
only presence
and the promise
to never walk alone.

Author and Artist is Elvis Becker

Keeper of Soft Footsteps

She stands where dusk drinks the last fire of the sun.
braids heavy with stories, robe painted in the colors of dawn.
A fawn rests in her arms—
new life against ancient heartbeat.

Around them, dragonflies trace prayers in the air.
and the forest leans in to listen.
No words spoken, yet every spirit knows:
Gentleness is a warrior’s first medicine.

In her silence, the earth remembers
that love is not loud,
it is steady—
a quiet promise carried
in every soft hoofprint of tomorrow.

Come to Me, When the Forest Sleeps

Come to me,
when the forest no longer breathes,
when the rivers forget their names,
and the wind no longer remembers your song.

Do not fear, my brother of the moonlight,
For my fire still burns
a small flame against the dark,
waiting for your shadow to return.

Lay your head upon my knees.
I will sing you the old songs.
the ones our ancestors wove
from the breath of dawn and the cry of wolves.

No hunter will touch you here.
No sorrow will chase your spirit.
Here, under Grandmother Moon,
You are home again.

Art by Serin Alar

Whispers of the Sky and Earth

High above the mountain crest,
Eagle soars where spirits rest.
Eyes of wisdom, vast and wide,
Guiding the people, the river, the tide.

Beneath the moon, in forest deep,
Wolf’s song stirs where shadows sleep.
A call of loyalty, fierce and true,
Binding the tribe like morning dew.

Sky and earth, a sacred thread,
Through eagle’s flight and wolf’s tread.
Together they guard, together they roam,
Two spirits united, one eternal home.

Mother Bear’s Promise

Come closer, little one,
rest your nose against mine.
I am the warmth in the cave,
the heartbeat beneath the pines.

Your paws are small,
but they carry the blood of rivers,
the strength of mountains,
the memory of stars.

When you stumble,
I will steady you.
When you hunger,
I will share the roots of my spirit,
the honey of my soul.

The winds will call your name,
The earth will guide your steps,
The Great Spirit watches above,
But it is my shadow
that will shelter you first.

I give you my courage,
I give you my breath,
and as long as my spirit lingers
in the song of the forest—
You will never be alone.

Serin Alar

The Woman Who Speaks to the Moon

She stands where silence meets the sky,
draped in the breath of midnight hues.
The water holds her secret shape,
a mirror of what once was true.
Her shawl—woven with the hands of time—
glows faintly like a prayer reborn.
Each thread remembers songs of earth,
each bead, the echo of the dawn.
The moon leans close to hear her heart,
Its silver tears fall on the lake.
Between her and the trembling stars,
the old ones stir, the spirits wake.
She does not speak in mortal tongue,
yet mountains listen when she dreams.
For she is keeper of the still,
and through her, night remembers gleam.
In her shadow, the world grows quiet—
The forest bows, the rivers sigh.
For she is not just a woman standing,
but memory walking through the sky.

Poem and Painting by Elvis Becker

Mama Bear’s Message

Little ones, my cubs so dear,
Gather close and always hear:
Love each other, hand in hand,
Share your hearts across the land.

The forest thrives when spirits care,
When kindness lingers in the air.
Give your strength, your joy, your song,
Together, you will grow up strong.

Remember this, wherever you go,
The seeds of love will always grow.
For nothing shines, both near and far,
Like the bond of who you are.

Art by Serin Alar

The Bear and the Dragonfly

The bear does not envy the dragonfly’s wings,
And the dragonfly does not tremble before the bear’s strength.
They meet -
in the still pool of a summer dusk -
and know:
Power and gentleness can share the same breath.

The bear holds the forest’s weight,
the dragonfly carries the light between raindrops.
Yet both shimmer
in the reflection of the same sun.

Neither commands.
Neither yields.
They simply exist -
each a prayer, the other completes.

We - humans -
measure too much.
We forget the language of balance.
But the bear and the dragonfly
still remember.
In their silence,
The wild is whole again.

(Art by Serin Alar)

The Girl of the Sacred Forest

From the depths of the sacred woods,
Where the whispers of the ancients breathe,
She steps with the grace of the wind,
Her feathers glowing in the moon's light,
A spirit born from the soil of the earth,
Her soul, a dance of flames and light.

Her eyes reflect the stars above,
Her heart beats to the rhythm of the land,
She is the fire that burns within the trees,
A force of nature, wild and free.
In the silence of the night,
Her spirit sings of ancient times,
A song of strength, of life, of love,
From the sacred forest, she arrives.

Serin Alar

Breath of Mother Earth

The girl lifts her face,
welcoming the pure breeze,
fragrance of flowers mingling with birdsong,
her heart beating gently with the rhythm of the earth.

Mother Earth extends unseen arms,
embracing each breath, each strand of drifting hair.
She listens to the whispers of streams,
to the forest calling from a thousand years past.

Each inhale — a gift of strength,
Each exhale — a prayer of gratitude.
She smiles.
as if she has become part of the soil,
part of the sky,
eternal, free.

Serin Alar

Do Not Fear, Brother Bear

Do not fear.
Brother of the Forest,
Your breath is the breath of mountains.
Your heart beats with the rivers.

I kneel before you.
palms open to the moon,
to say:
You are not alone.

When storms rise
and the sky cracks with thunder,
I will walk beside you.
When silence falls
and the night softens,
My spirit will rest near yours.

Do not fear the world’s sharp winds—
My song will be your shelter.
my fire, your warmth.

Whether in shadow
or in sunlight’s gentle hands,
We are bound—
two spirits,
one promise:
I will be here.

Velin Rael

The Canoe of Our Ancestors

Upon the river’s crimson glow,
Two spirits drift where soft winds blow.
Their braids hold whispers, old and true,
Of forest songs and skies of blue.

The water lilies bloom with grace,
Like elders’ prayers in sacred space.
The fire of sunset paints the air,
A living bond, a fervent prayer.

The canoe they ride is more than wood,
It carries blood, it carries good.
For every paddle stroke they take,
The earth and sky their vows awake.

O People strong, O hearts that stay,
The roots of Native never sway.
For love and land forever meet,
Where river’s song and spirit greet.
.
.Artist and the storyteller: Solis Hue

Wings of Prayer

Within the shape of human form,
butterfly wings unfold like flames of color,
embracing the crimson sky
with the gentle pulse of a soul.

Hands pressed in quiet prayer,
light rises like a sacred spring—
calling rain to the grasslands,
calling wind to the forests,
calling peace to the earth
that longs to heal again.

The butterfly is me,
the human is me—
one body, one spirit,
woven in eternal rhythm.

O Mother Earth,
Receive these wings as gratitude,
Receive this breath as a bridge,
So generations yet to come
may live in the light,
and in peace.

Serin Alar

Whisperwing, the Spirit of Night Blooms

Long ago, when the Earth was young and the stars were still learning to dance, there lived a guardian spirit named Whisperwing, a sacred night butterfly born of moonlight and flower dreams. Her wings shimmered with the glow of dusk, painted in deep blues and violets—colors only seen in the quietest part of night.

Whisperwing was created by Lunoma, the Moon Maiden, to carry messages between the spirit world and the dreams of the living. She fluttered through midnight meadows and across sleeping forests, her wings stirring wind that whispered secrets into flowers, guiding lost souls home.

Every petal she touched would bloom with sacred light, and every shadow she passed through would remember her path. The stars watched her in awe, calling her "The Silent Flame", for she burned with no fire, but illuminated hearts.

It was said that if you saw Whisperwing in your dreams, your soul was being chosen—for healing, for transformation, or for a journey. Elders taught that when the crescent moon rose high and the air smelled of wild lavender, you must leave a bowl of water and flowers by your door. If Whisperwing passed, the petals would float, and a new path would open in your life by morning.

To this day, her legend lives on. Many Native dreamweavers still embroider her wings onto their blankets and sing to her under starlit skies:

"Fly, Whisperwing, through sky and root,
Bearer of truth on violet flute.
Where moonlight dances, there you roam,
Guide our spirit gently home."

And so she flies—forever between the veil of night and bloom, unseen, yet always felt.

#nativeamericanwisdom

Whispers Beneath the Moon

In a meadow where the wildflowers glowed blue beneath the light of the full moon, two sisters stood side by side, their dark hair flowing like rivers of night. They were wrapped in sacred robes woven by their grandmother, stitched with strands of spirit and sky.

Their names were Taya and Suni, daughters of the Moonwatcher Clan, known for their wisdom in reading the stars and listening to the whispers of the land. Tonight was no ordinary night. It was the Night of Remembering, when the veil between the past and present grew thin and the voices of the ancestors could be heard in the rustle of pine and the shimmer of stardust.

As they gazed at the glowing moon, Taya whispered, “Can you hear them, Suni?”

The younger sister nodded slowly. “They are singing.”

The sky above swirled in purples and blues, the stars glittering like ancient eyes watching over them. A faint melody filled the air—not with instruments, but with memory. It was the song their mother used to sing at bedtime, the one passed down for generations. A lullaby of healing, of journeys across forests, of waiting under the moon for signs from the Great Spirit.

Taya closed her eyes and placed a hand over her heart. “They are guiding us,” she said softly. “We are not alone.”

Behind them, the forest stood like guardians, tall and silent. The sisters knew that tomorrow would bring challenges. The world outside their homeland was changing, forgetting, moving too fast. But here—beneath the moon—they remembered who they were.

Daughters of the Earth. Carriers of old songs. Watchers of the sky.

And in that sacred moment, the night sky pulsed with color, the stars danced a little brighter, and the spirits smiled—knowing that the story would live on through these two young souls.

#nativeamericanwisdom

Whispers of the Wolf Spirit

As the sun sank into the cradle of the mountains, fire-kissing the lake with its final breath, a woman stood in stillness by the shore. Her name was Nayeli—“I love you” in the old tongue—and she was known as the Keeper of Echoes.

She wore robes etched with birds of the sky and dreams of the forest. Her heartbeat moved in rhythm with the earth, and her breath rose and fell with the wind. At her side stood the wolf—silent, fierce, eternal. His name was Shunkaha, the Spirit Who Walks Between.

Nayeli was born under a moon that wept rain and stars, a sign that she would speak not only with people but with the wild. From a young age, animals came to her like old friends returning home. The hawk circled above her. The deer bowed before her. And the wolf... the wolf never left her side.

It was said her voice could calm storms, and that when she closed her eyes at dusk, she listened to the voices of her ancestors through the howls of the pack. She did not command the wolf. She listened. She did not rule the wild. She walked with it.

One day, a drought came—drying rivers, silencing birdsong, cracking the land’s memory. While many prayed, Nayeli acted. With Shunkaha at her side, she followed the old canoe trails into forgotten forest paths. There, she sang the sacred songs—songs her grandmother once whispered over firelight.

And the land listened.

The rains returned. The lakes filled. The trees bowed low with new leaves. And on nights like this, when the sun melts into water and wolves stand guard at the edge of dreams, the elders smile and say:

“Nayeli walks with the wolf still. And in her silence, the world remembers how to breathe.”

#nativeamericanwisdom

Smoke and Wing

Smoke rises from the pipe
like whispers of the ancestors,
drawing a path between two spirits —
man and bird, earth and sky.

The canoe stays still
Yet time quietly drifts by,
between the sacred breath of the forest
and an old prayer never forgotten.

The black bird meets the smoke
soft as an unspoken memory,
its gaze steady — no fear, no division,
only knowing, only thanks.

The man says nothing,
But he gives the universe
In a single white breath
that drifts into the stars.

#nativeamericanwisdom

The Three Generations of the Moon

In the heart of the snow-covered lands, where pine trees sing in the wind and the moon glows like a guardian spirit, there lived three women: the Daughter, the Mother, and the Grandmother. They were more than family — they were The Keepers of Memory.

Each of them held the wisdom of their time:

The Daughter carried the voice of the future.

The Mother carried the strength of the present.

The Grandmother carried the stories of the past.

Every winter, when the moon was full and the first snow began to fall, the three would gather at the edge of the forest, facing the sky. They stood side by side — one looking to tomorrow, one grounded in today, and one remembering yesterday.

On one such night, a great silence fell over the land. No birds flew. No wolves howled. Even the wind held its breath. The Grandmother lifted her eyes and said:

“The Spirit Moon calls us. It is time to sing the Song of Continuance.”

So they sang.

Their voices rose together — old and young, soft and strong — weaving a chant so ancient that even the snow paused to listen. As they sang, the forest glowed. The moonlight wrapped around them like a shawl, and from their breath, stars were born.

In that moment, a truth became clear: they were not just three women.

They were one spirit in three forms — the same soul moving through time, bound by love, memory, and the Earth itself.

When the song ended, the snowfall resumed. But something had changed. The forest seemed warmer. The trees stood taller. And far above, the moon shone with a knowing light.

To this day, the people say:

“When you hear snow falling like a whisper, the Three Generations are singing. And through them, we remember who we are.”

#nativeamericanwisdom

Whispers Beneath the Moon

In a meadow where the wildflowers glowed blue beneath the light of the full moon, two sisters stood side by side, their dark hair flowing like rivers of night. They were wrapped in sacred robes woven by their grandmother, stitched with strands of spirit and sky.

Their names were Taya and Suni, daughters of the Moonwatcher Clan, known for their wisdom in reading the stars and listening to the whispers of the land. Tonight was no ordinary night. It was the Night of Remembering, when the veil between the past and present grew thin and the voices of the ancestors could be heard in the rustle of pine and the shimmer of stardust.

As they gazed at the glowing moon, Taya whispered, “Can you hear them, Suni?”

The younger sister nodded slowly. “They are singing.”

The sky above swirled in purples and blues, the stars glittering like ancient eyes watching over them. A faint melody filled the air—not with instruments, but with memory. It was the song their mother used to sing at bedtime, the one passed down for generations. A lullaby of healing, of journeys across forests, of waiting under the moon for signs from the Great Spirit.

Taya closed her eyes and placed a hand over her heart. “They are guiding us,” she said softly. “We are not alone.”

Behind them, the forest stood like guardians, tall and silent. The sisters knew that tomorrow would bring challenges. The world outside their homeland was changing, forgetting, moving too fast. But here—beneath the moon—they remembered who they were.

Daughters of the Earth. Carriers of old songs. Watchers of the sky.

And in that sacred moment, the night sky pulsed with color, the stars danced a little brighter, and the spirits smiled—knowing that the story would live on through these two young souls.

#nativeamericanwisdom

Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, June 25

"Get thee up into the high mountain." Isaiah 40:9

Our knowledge of Christ is somewhat like climbing one of our Welsh mountains. When you are at the base you see but little: the mountain itself appears to be but one-half as high as it really is. Confined in a little valley, you discover scarcely anything but the rippling brooks as they descend into the stream at the foot of the mountain. Climb the first rising knoll, and the valley lengthens and widens beneath your feet. Go higher, and you see the country for four or five miles round, and you are delighted with the widening prospect. Mount still, and the scene enlarges; till at last, when you are on the summit, and look east, west, north, and south, you see almost all England lying before you. Yonder is a forest in some distant county, perhaps two hundred miles away, and here the sea, and there a shining river and the smoking chimneys of a manufacturing town, or the masts of the ships in a busy port. All these things please and delight you, and you say, "I could not have imagined that so much could be seen at this elevation." Now, the Christian life is of the same order. When we first believe in Christ we see but little of Him. The higher we climb the more we discover of His beauties. But who has ever gained the summit? Who has known all the heights and depths of the love of Christ which passes knowledge? Paul, when grown old, sitting grey-haired, shivering in a dungeon in Rome, could say with greater emphasis than we can, "I know whom I have believed," for each experience had been like the climbing of a hill, each trial had been like ascending another summit, and his death seemed like gaining the top of the mountain, from which he could see the whole of the faithfulness and the love of Him to whom he had committed his soul. Get thee up, dear friend, into the high mountain.

EarthSky Voices - First images from Biomass mission show vibrant Earth:

https://earthsky.org/todays-image/first-images-biomass-mission-earth-forest/

#EarthExplorerBiomass #Biomass #EarthObservation #Earth #FutureEO #ESA #SatelliteImage #Satellite #SyntheticApertureRadar #RADAR #DeepPenetration #ImageAnalysis #Deforestation #Forest #CarbonCycle #CarbonStorage #EnvironmentalScience #Ecology #Biology