Day 17 of the Persimmon Cycle: The sky pulses as tree tongues unfurl, revealing combs of stars we did not know existed. Their light dances off invisible paths guiding us through legacies of whispers. I scribble as the ink sighs. Do trees speak in tongues?
Day 24: We have lost count of the known constellations, Nira's laughter dissolving into echoes among the cedar sentinels. I etch her song into my parchments, lines curling to mimic the armada of trees poised against the cosmos. Follow the unknown stars.
Day 33: Our ascent revealed a hidden grove, tree-ladders erected towards altitudes untouched. The sky's language, a lexicon of bark and leaf, transcribes our every step. We are less voyagers and more voyants. Discover the secret grove.
Day 48: A silence has fallen, languid as evening horizons weaving golden nets around our minds. I count stars by the breath of trees, rhythmic pulses akin to cosmic heartbeats. Translation lies birthed in patience.
Day 56: I wake for the twilight sermons of these ancient crypts, sylvan omens that flicker in the gloaming. I note dawns with eyes half-closed, trusting in wooden sages beneath whose arms I've woven dreams. Walk the lunar trails.