This story circles the earth like a river scribbling a message of scars and songs and a something-else, swirling like old-fashioned script beyond the binding of a book.
A vagabond leaves the trail of words dropping from palms stained with ink, blue from a wet horizon. The salt of three seas press to her lips as they part.
The wind brings songs to quench her word-thirst. Syllables soak the world with sound and the air fills with the smell before rain,
She tastes phrases of perhaps and imagines the final page as a picture book: a rowboat anchored with hope.