"I'd like to think poetry is both a hiding place and the centre of everything", Gaia whispered to the dark forest. She let the gust of air brush her hair aside and held her body tightly to keep warm.
November was known to let itself be known in all aspects of nature; the crippling red leaves dying soundlessly on the pavement, the freezing wind blasting cold air.
Gaia felt like November.
Cold and dying.
She sat in the middle of an empty field, talking to the space around her. People were often too hard to handle, while nature had always been a great listener.