Wapun Meadow and I've got one foot in the door

eulie dawn beamed like sunrise.
we just gotta choose the good, sweetheart, she chimed, tucking her chin as she rolled to her side in the grass, the berry branch still tucked between her dainty teeth. her lashes swept slow, lazy-like, toward the man with eyes stormy as summer thunder, and her voice was as light as thistle-down. ain’t no use in carryin’ ghosts when you got music to carry instead.
she liked the way he listened—not with hunger, or desperation, but with something old in him. worn and cracked. a song could fill those places. it always had, back home. and she didn’t mind if her songs stirred pain—so long as they stirred somethin’. even sorrow meant you were still here. still hearin’. still hopin’.
we covey don't believe someone's born good 'r bad, she whispered, propping her chin on one elbow and giving him a sideways grin. it’s about choosin’ one. every mornin’. every hour. you wake up and you pick it. again and again. and the good? her voice softened, golden and sure. the good’ll find you back.
she plucked another berry from the branch and rolled it with her tongue, eyes drifting to the horizon where birds spun circles in the air. maybe next time i’ll sing somethin’ with a little more joy in it. somethin’ sweet for your sweetheart ears, she teased, nudging the compliment back at him like a stone across a pond.