The lake looks good today, she would stroll beside and sit at the edge on the flat rock, and watch diamonds and birds emerge from the water. The lake held tears and she had come to listen to the tributary song.
‘Listen, can you hear the wind weave and roil? Keep moving, keep moving, and don’t stay still for too long.’ Is it too late to create another cosmos? Can spirit be taught to rid the pile of pebbles so as to praise the stars once again?’ Questions rose from the lake like steam.
The hill was steep and the summoning to a shady tree fell soft to her weary eye. She lay down and admired the angles of the bristly grass, broke bread with leaves, and folded trees into herself. Her shoulders fell back against the paper bark tree, kismet spiriting across her eyes, her skin in summer patina.
She hummed a tune she remembered she had tasted once before on a hot night, where moths and moonlight danced a dervish, and the fae clasped hands in a circle, skipping about with the wind caught in their shiny fluid dresses.
She wondered about owls and what they witnessed at night. She thought to ask them the next time she was dining with the nocturnes, and press them about their secret blue visions while the town dreamt in shadows and sepia tones, shadow boxing in the essences of the subterranean.
A bee hovered near. She smiled, remembering her wings were resting safe in the silent cave at the bottom of the mountain. Bees don’t know much about owls and wisdom is best eaten fresh, honey was the food she craved; it never spoils.