The ripples remember long after the forests forget – whispers from the willow banks, hung low with dew-studded tales, translucent as silk dreams between wet leaves.
I remember yellow umbrellas aligning themselves in protective arcs – armed not so much against rain but rivalry.
In a half-remembered cove, our shadows were lengthened reflections in mid-forgotten afternoons, where sunsets sang operatic verses we didn’t know the language to.
Surprisingly sterile was the mint I pursued in transparent waters – curious and confused like a ghost seeking comfort in unexpected laughter.
Continuing through autumn-clad tunnels.
When did driftwood learn how to whisper?