A figure stands beside the rapids,
listening to the night songs; a ritual
as old as the river unfolds around her.
Aged pines sway, spectral mists roll
across the rocky peaks of Monadhliath.
Their silhouettes crawl velvet-lined passes
while fairy cattle, hooves softly muffled
by the carpeted forest, complete
their trek toward the circled stones,
and she follows.
The melody of her ancestors descends,
douses her gown, seeps through her skin,
and liberates her memories.
Her spirit escapes its corporal confines,
free to wander, a nomad trailing the herd.
At the grove, a highland messenger waits,
an embodiment of this land.
In a chrysalis cradled by his lullaby,
the maiden moon gives birth.
Transformed into the shape of a Hart,
he will finally sing her home.