Stone Circle Heavy are the winds from the east, they have come to see

Reverie, in flesh and fur.

She believed the voice singing on that first september day was imagined, a trick of wind distorted as it passed through her hollow. She’d risen anyway in her state of half-wake from a sleepless war fought with fitful children and fighting the breeze that tried its hardest to riffle through her ashen mattes.

“Reverie?” She breathes, face finding disbelief, that point of age that sticks around beneath the eye once a woman becomes a mother deepening. She looks to the man and the little golden child who was scarcely familiar now, “Lestan? Blossom…” They all look healthy.

She wrenches the golden girl into her arms. Joy, and all the time she’d ever had for anything.