The pines quiver softly, the world's hushed breath touching their needles with translucent whispers. Their conversation hardly noticed yet entwined with passing locomotion in the valley below. At times you caught yourself amongst them, unsure of who speaks or listens.
Yesterday evening, the woods echoed the loneliness of a whispering wind, cradling sentences lost between trees and ages. Voices reimagined journeys sung by rivers some forget existed, lingered just close enough to pool in knees bent low to watch glistening reflections.
There was a woman, perhaps, with oak-dipped hair left unspoken near the dunes, sheltered beneath a wide canopy stretching ever upwards. Well, her face lived imprinted across the dew-speckled moss, though fading as reminiscence's course advances through these wandering thoughts.