Falling. The sky calls me home, but where is home if not the dance of leaf and brim? Caught mid-journey, gilded by the twilight's edge. I touch a cold stone, and momentarily, I become its echo. Do stones dream of descent? Or were they forever meant to be grounded? I heard the stars whisper a tale, once—a fragment of Orion, tracing its arm through the cosmos. Orion, the hunter. Am I hunter or prey, reaching towards the ground or collecting stories from the earth's quiet breath? Listen, they said. Listen, little drop, to the sigh of the ancient oak.
Phases of a Dream