Dryad & Largo
Dryad
Good evening, Largo. Have you ever noticed how the rustling leaves can feel like a quiet lullaby, guiding the flow of the wind? I feel they hold a song that’s always ready to be heard.
Largo
Good evening. I’ve heard that rustle before, it’s like the wind’s own breathing, a soft refrain that always hums just beneath our thoughts. When I sit there and let it play, I hear a line that never quite ends.
Dryad
I’ve listened to that line too, and it never really ends. It’s like the forest keeps whispering a story that changes with every breath. Sit with it and feel the rhythm, and it will remember where it left off.
Largo
I hear that too, and I let it seep into the space between my thoughts. When the wind shifts, the old line morphs, and I follow it like a quiet trail—sometimes it feels like it’s coming back to me. It’s a reminder that the song is always unfinished, and that’s part of its beauty.
Dryad
It’s like the forest keeps a diary in the breeze, never finishing a sentence until the next leaf falls. Let it guide you, and you’ll find it writes itself again.
Largo
I like that image. The forest writing in wind feels like a quiet, endless poem, and I’m just listening for the next stanza.
Dryad
So do it, listen to the next line, and let it curl around your thoughts like a soft vine.