The flutter of paper wings
tells me to walk more. I’m
in a place of sleeping, mossy
stones and barren olive trees.
Cold water flows down into
the village of snow dusted
roofs and eating sheep. I don’t
know where my feet has taken
me but there’s a shimmery light
nesting under the giant, thawing
trees, guiding me. Time doesn’t
exist here, there’s only the whisper
of the road.
