Between the banks of night and day, she stands gazing at the undual, still in the flow. Seasons come and phases lapse, but her vigil flies aloft. It reaches beyond man, beast and plant, and touches the source of all.

But she’s not a hoarder of beliefs, collector of memories or weaver of dreams. She’s a being way too drenched in the juice of life for the mind to drain, and way too high for age to reach, for she lives in the void between the breaths of time.

She’s a seer of the truth when the winds of change lift the veil off the view, as she waits to be washed ashore the infinite beyond to which she belongs. She’s a watcher on the wall, and her gaze shall hang like a mirror long after she’s gone, to flower in every heart.