She found the meadow before the world woke up.
Every puddle is a second city.
The market smells like cardamom and argument.
The forest holds its breath between storms.
October keeps its promises in gold.
"To wander without a map is its own kind of prayer."
"Light does not ask permission to enter."
She was thinking about something she'd never say out loud.
Seventy years of weather, all in one face.