Jade Fern Grove Stop swaying when they move or shake it down

the boy's question floats out casually, and her lobes dip in thought. "sometimes, I see again."  there are dreams and half-waking ones that bring things into sharp focus; and she sees the trees of her childhood, the ocean, yet they are always changed, somehow. she recounts the lake, the burn of the reflected sun into her optics. "and sometimes the light shows me things. I know that I must cross the mountains." jagged peaks, burned into her vision, her mind. brow creases in mortal worry, and her muzzle sweeps in the general direction of the peaks; her predicament obvious. this it smooths and stills, and she asks. "do you?"