Some hear rain. Some hear the cracking whip that illuminates a star-dusted sky. Some hear cold tremble of white fur, soft eyes, as the intake of breath becomes softer with each. Some hear the startle of the ants dwelling, a swell of bodies together in fear, as the tree bark cracks. Some hear the gentle ***** of the quivering forest, a harrowing descent into whiskey dark. Some hear hollowed out emptiness that rain makes when knocking on a tree, inside smelling of pine and empty nests. Safe here, safer, save her. Drip drip goes the pine, as a thick gaze falls upon a branch too far to reach. Alone, where some hear soft crackling of the fire embracing wood, she can hear the stream of mumbled prayers from her to the tawny owl to the dry-creak bed, soaking into each crack like a parched breath. Does she imagine she will ever leave? still, be still, still beβhere, always. Some hear tired maples sleeping by rivers, their roots flowing like smoke to find something beautiful, yet lost. Is it loneliness, she sees? Do they wander without ever reaching? The pantherβs paws are placed in the wet dust of morning. The grass is dewy, soft under the hard boot-tread of her feet. She can wait until the stars align in the saddle-shape of soft leather and emptiness. She can wait to cry in the dawn, where the grey is ugly and she is still broken. But she is alone and lost in a patchwork quilt, a soft sinew that will don a snowcoat soon. But the night is long and she is endless, her arms stretching to the treetops, her lips brushing against weary memories that she has her whole life left to uncover alone.