She speaks.

She speaks.

Her voice carries into the distance like defiant mud. No one pulls off the road to let her pass. They don’t look at her as she stands in the winds of observation and screams toward what is coming. The men speak over her, and the children clamor for her attention. All she wants is a voice. All she fears is the silence of those who can help her. There are grasshoppers around her, though. And they seemingly pay attention with their verdant expressions of kinetic potential. Angled legs ready to bounce. And, for the moment, she can appreciate the maneuvering of such awkward creatures, delicate and sharp at the same time. She can feel the asphalt beneath her feet, so she decides to take off her shoes and build calluses against the dark heat of the pathways that have led her here and will further still lead her elsewhere. To more crossroads. To more detours. To more construction. If she stares long enough into the darkness that is hovering at her shoulders, then she can still see that one grand tree in the middle of it all. She could run toward that tree in her bare feet. She could attempt to climb and scrape against the bark and bite of gravity. She could inhale the green meaning in the leaves that will soon change colors. But for now she stands away from the parades and costumes. Away from sound manufactured by mechanical tidbits of structure. Away from expectations of cultural melodies. Always hiding certain predictions and appreciations in the shallow pocket of her grandmother’s apron. That comfortable feeling of carrying something on that has been tackled at every chance of change. What will she find in her observations of the future? What will she realize when she picks up the pen? Are there goals she can fathom beyond just being heard? She tiptoes toward the rocks on the side of the road and feels their movement and porous colors, but then she makes it to the grass. The wetness between her toes and the silky togetherness that could be swaying in unison with the songs of the wind. The tops of each blade has been cut thousands of times, and yet the sun still feeds that hunger to keep growing. That yearning to merge with the sky keeps pulling nourishment from the surroundings earth and finds some magical stanzas of science to continue toward the bigger picture. Toward the larger horizons of a cloudscape so generous that a strict cup of tea in a delicate porcelain container will no longer be sufficient to mirror the readings of where she might go. Who she might meet. Things she might accomplish. Art and hope in the form of tough lessons will provide the structure she needs to bury yesterday’s fumblings, for they are no longer necessary pieces of jewelry she should wrap around her wrists and neck. The fireflies are coming out now and lifting their tiny luminous messages to each other in some haphazard unison. She should go too. Where, she’s not truly sure, but is there any place that could be as calming as this, but perhaps a little more comfortable? Velvet cushions. The warmth of another human ready to embrace all that she brings to rooms filled with generations of recipes and traditions. She says goodnight to this particular curve of country road and pulls the handle of the heavy car door. Keys. Pedal. Engine grumbles. Headlights. She’ll leave the windows down, and her face will glow in the incandescence of the radio. Her words will turn into lyrics, and the vibrations of messages will spill into the same night air that nourishes the mountains. She signals to no one that she’ll be pulling back into the road in just a minute. As soon as she’s ready…