No one can properly see the ground without getting down on your belly and feeling it too. It has bumps and mounds and smooth places, not unlike our own bodies.
I press my ear down on a soft patch of rusty, brown-green moss, and I can hear a faint, "thud-thud-thud." Maybe it is the sound of an ant trudging along the slight incline, his feet in military rhythm. Perhaps it's the sound of a far away lawnmower, the low, rumbling reverberations are the only remnants of sound that survive to where I am laying. It could be a dog, scratching so intently at the place behind his left ear that he doesn't realize he's drumming the ground, as well.
There is a place, just an arm's-length away, where the grass is thinner and the leaves appear to have been swept away. Only a few pea-sized acorns and some shriveled, red madrone skin remain. I think to myself that maybe someone else has listened to the ground from that spot. That, like me, someone else has been lying on their belly listening to their own heartbeat and imagining that all the world is part of it.