Look. Look there. Do you see it? . . . Do you? In the crook of that tree, where bark is dead, and peeling away, there’s something moving, in the darkness of the leaves.

She has been growing in the silences that fill this place. Growing slender and wiser and wild.

Out of the mist she unfurls now, limbs tender and moist from rebirthing, eyes unfathomable, the evening heavy on her skin.

She’s looking right at you. She’s ready to begin. Won’t you follow her whispers through the trees? Let her take you deeper in? . . . Come. There are stories here.

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