Check out the update to The Eyes of God:
I shivered at their hollow wooden calls, an orchestra of thousands lending what small sound they had to that greater lamenting. Together they had one voice, one soul, with which to sing. I wondered who would hear—who could hear?—earth moaning to be made whole. So I stood in the deepest blackness with nothing but the trees’ song around me.
“Oraculi!” I shouted. “I’m blind.” It came as a cry, a pitch I barely expected from myself. An echo of it returned to me, and it was as the voice of a child calling for help. The lamentation rested; I waited in the empty silence.
The weight of it, that great suffocating mass of silence, descended on me in a manner of time I can’t recall. It seems sometimes reflection shows it was sudden, a panic spreading like ice through my limbs, yet just as often, I remember it a slow burn, the sinking dread that I was alone. At some point in the darkness, the unbearable sanctity of the dead forest overwhelmed me, and I ran.
With my hands before me, I took and unsteady pace forward, and as a slight trickle may portend the cascade of a breaking damn, suddenly bolted. Some voice in my head warned me to stop, warned me that I would—that I must—collide with a tree before long. Then I stepped in it, into a puddle, into water. Before I knew it, my feet were sinking into the mud.
“Water,” I said, and falling to my knees, let the cool current rise over my chest. I gasped at the frigid flow, and felt my body quake. Plunging my head beneath the surface, I ran my fingers through my oily, unwashed hair, rubbing out the dirt and grime of the drought. Under the water, convulsions soon rocked my body as my lungs strained for air.
Throwing my head up out of the pond, I laughed. Wiping my eyes clear, blurry lights began to emerge.