Once upon a breezy afternoon, we gather near the willow, swaying with the treetops. Today, we seek the ephemeral script, a tale written by the whispering wind.
First, the initiation requires a single feather, white like the clouds. It must touch the heart, or else the wind will laugh.
Next, we dance in circles, arms wide, catching the breeze. Singing gently, we must remember the secret the wind told last spring.
Finally, a wish like a dandelion puff must be made. It drifts further than our voices, telling the world our dreams.