Cool, soft, quiet breezes. Mossy earth. Tiny, bubbling streams. Spring water as cold as ice. The wing beats of a raven overhead, unseen in the fog. Water drips off the rocks on a cliff. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She steps over an old fallen tree. She pulls up a giant rock and finds moths. Right now she is living mainly on moths. Soundless, she climbs the hill, rolling rock after rock, eating moth after moth.
She stops to scratch her neck, then stares off into the fog for as long as she cares to. There is nothing to fear. Nothing to question. It is foggy in the dark timber.
Time does not pass here where she lives. Time just is. There is only the fog. The quiet. The tiny bubbling streams. The mossy earth. And there are lots of moths under the rocks.
There’s no rush. Nap time. So many rocks…so much time.