Our love story may have ended, but the
56 Followers
Atop a storm-bent tree, a crow barked into the wind—not for reply, but for declaration Its voice shredded the sky into something more honest It wasn't asking, it was affirming: I exist, I remember, I endure
On the orchard fence, a hawk perched with judgment in its bones It stared beyond me, unmoved I felt smaller—and maybe better—for it
At the edge of the forest, I stopped and closed my eyes. The birds sang like they didn’t know how else to be, and the wind moved through the pines with the patience of time itself. I didn’t need to understand it to be changed by it.
The apple orchard smelled of cider and sweetness, faded ladders leaned against gnarled trunks, and baskets waited for hands to fill them.