In the Thick, Unlit Wilds
You may say, when do they speak? In dreams, where you may catch a glimpse of some forgotten recollection. In reverie, all becomes deja vu, the strange amnesia of being born folds back, if ye would but trust what your sense and intuition tells you. You've known all along.
And all the doubt piled on by worried and careful skeptics in love with their religion of doubt, their fervent fanaticism to unknow, their eager mallets with which they strike down and censor all who commence to undo the amnesia does not touch that knowing. Your reverie, your odd, uncanny sense will let you remember these friends, who now live as trees, as rocks, as streams. And let the oversnooty laugh at unsophisticated bliss and contentment, for if they wish to feel strangers in their own home, that is their right and call.
But for you, beloved, trees, rocks, and shrubs, birds and crawling things call home. Play with doubt as you will if ye must ; you are, after all, a small primate with the cosmos wrapped inside your neural folds, and, oh, small, precious beast just recent stepped down from trees into vast savannah, I know how shocking to find the Gods living through your animal existence all along, so placing down the burden of this gnosis, you may wish to play in that nursery of not-knowing a bit longer.
But I say you need not ever feel not at home, for you walk through the kitchen, and the garden, and the front hall ; the bedroom, the bathroom, and the dining room of all the old friends your primate brain has filed away in its dream-cabinet in the basement.