Wild Berry Meadow You're headed for heaven

AW! experimental gal

wild berries don’t grow for the hungry. they grow for the birds, the wind, the ghosts who sip from their sweetness when no one’s looking. but that never stopped her from plucking them anyway, rolling them over her tongue like a secret, letting the juice stain her teeth like the kiss of something half-forgotten.
the meadow hums with the voices of things unseen, leaves rustling like whispers passed in the dark. she knows better than to listen too closely—some songs aren’t meant to be heard all the way through.
a crow calls from the crooked fencepost, watching, waiting.
ain’t nothin’ free in this world, sugar, she murmurs to it, tongue curling lazy around the words. not even the sun.
she moves slow, easy, a shadow stretching between golden stalks. the wind tugs at her fur, playful, like it might carry her off if she lets it. maybe she should. maybe she will.
but not today. today, the berries are ripe, and the world still spins.