Under The Sycamore.

She is always either gazing outward, silently, or smiling ever so subtly and alluringly. But always afar. Yonder.

She has opened up to Me, very subtly but noticeably so. In the months previous, she showed no emotion before me or in my presence. Just like Overseas, just like The Non-Civilian Me. Sometimes, like The Ground-Zero Me. Her presence used to be ominous, and her eyes and much of her face, used to always be in dark or shadow.

Under the unspoken assumption, that this all-encompassing distance between She and I, would always remain.

Raging Fire.

Empty Shell.

Scorched Bricks.

Tattered Flag.

The Ground Zero Me.

But she has changed, or rather, evolved, gradually so, as I have too.

What I see now, is a rural house.

A country house.

Quiet.

Spring-time.

With the birds so delicately audible.

The leaves on the trees, fresh and green, swaying in The Placid Spring Breeze,

which permeates inward through the open window, along with The Soft, Gentle Sunlight,

to cast a synergistic umbrella upon, Thuh Mannequin Pai.

Sitting, in a wooden chair,

along the wall.

Dressed,

in a simple, ankle-length skirt,

and an earthy shawl to match.

Her head, no longer hooded and covered. And her face, no longer in shadow, or in mystery.

The Sunlight, casts a warm earthy light upon her face, now bare, and unveiled.

And The Wind, rustles through her straight hair, her mandible-length hair,

like fingers so intimate.

She is smiling, ever so subtly, almost unnoticeably, with mouth agape so very slightly.

Her gaze travels out of the window,

to the horizon afar, yonder.

Her eyes, so clear,

like the country air around her.

Transient.

And Fleeting.

And yet so distinctly Everlasting.

Quiet.

And Tranquil.

Like the birds that come to roost at dusk.

Under The Sycamore.