On the edge of stillness, a copper frog sits — worn with stories yet whispered. The morning mist clings faintly, like forgotten memories embroidered with silver linings.
Beneath the unyielding winter moon, I trace circles in the sand with weary soles. Each footprint, an echo of what once covered the earth before dreams scattered them into gentle shivers.
The frog listens while the night speaks through past voices — whispers only understood by the lingering ones who seek echoes in endless pastures.
Yet, the truth remains unspoken: who walks behind me? And as I dwell in each imprint, I find them leading places unseen, zephyr trailing soft behind copper-clad wisdom.