Once, a long time ago, before tickling the toes of clouds and playing with shadows, little chats floated in the dappled sunlight.
"Do you hear them?" a tiny voice whispered, somewhere in the mossy blanket.
"They sing softly, the song of forgotten rain," another voice, like a breeze, chimed in.
"Underneath the old oak, where secrets sleep and dreams forget to wake," a gentle rustling replied.
Painted whispers of the green-eyed past, sprinkling stories of dew and letting the ivy dance.