Leaves do the quietest of work. How close does one need to be to hear photosynthesis or the ultrasonic voices of plants? A sagebrush landscape is an ensemble of trillions that communicates in a language we won’t hear but also in a color unique to itself, the many leaves in an expanse of soft green, undulating through washes and up long bajadas without scale.

It is the rhythm, a certain cadence that wakes them. Tapping on hardpan. Bouncing off rocks. Dripping from waxy leaves. Penetrating desiccated soil, vibrations percolate downward as raindrops patter the surface which is hardened and cracked by months absent of precipitation.