Wondering songs, lifted on a carpet of lace green moss and serpentine streams; charming neighbors and reassuring those in attendance.

There is no uncertainty in where it will end, but a joy of the flutter of familiar flowers; a nearness and constant presence without the sameness of the past.

Where is the path, where does the story bed down at night?

Underneath a cacophony of language and a channel of uninterrupted flow; where once a whistle lay now a puff and a twitch.

It matters not the direction of the wind; nor the scent of an old day; it matters not if young or old, nor the size of the dream.

If only to see the queasy colors filled with riffling dance, endless yet comforting on the spine of creation; mesmerizing — enthralling with abundance, uncaring unto a never-ending destination.