She lives inside the tender stones that go for many miles, the exhausted rain falling, it's slick and smooth, cold to the touch, the red squirrels are thankful, the clouds are blind and bruising blue with black speckles, and they will be dissolved, the birds swim in the teary-puddles, reflecting like glass-globes broken by the holy light that gathers in the morning dew, and it all sparkles like explosive chemicals surrounding the bliss.
She steps outside, outside in the new day, the fresh grass sings, the fat toads in the pond burp, and lay flat on their lily pads like intoxicated tourists on the lake, everything is mixed up, the gray fog is late, an orange fox watches a meeting of mud-colored snakes curled around a decaying fence post, the old wooden gate screams in aged agony as it closes, a bristle of sharp wind kisses with pleasure like sex in the fern field, the suffocating cedar and brickwork look like a face blanketed in a poem, the slow-growing ivy on the walls that never wake up, all waiting to be frozen when winter finally arrives.