Beneath conifers the sound of waves emanating above from needles plucked by wind's fingers Trumpets migrating right to left aloft in atmosphere reflecting the sea. Ahead, Fujin or Aeolus or, more likely, Epigishmog draws the charcoal fleece to tuck in the land. The pages turn yellow and red and orange to brown, crisp, and feather- light. Rustling with change. It is in these moments, peaceful, content, knowing nothing, that the spirit inside becomes the spirit in all.
loveeee how u write omgggg i wanna connect w writers like my style of writing wld u wanna be mutuals,? i posted yesterday too if you’re interested⭐️🦢