White_bird & Sasha
White_bird
Do you ever hear the wind whispering a tale before you can put it down on paper?
Sasha
Absolutely—every rustle of leaves feels like a hidden story whispering just for me, and I let that wind carry the words straight into my notebook.
White_bird
Listen to the wind, it writes its own poetry in the gaps between your thoughts, and if you keep your eyes closed long enough, the stories it tells will paint themselves on paper.
Sasha
Oh, totally—when the wind rustles through the trees, it’s like a secret draft spilling out, and I just let those notes flow right onto the page.
White_bird
Sometimes the wind’s best poems are the ones that sit, barefoot, and watch a tree stand still.
Sasha
I love that—imagine barefoot, the wind on your skin, the tree as a quiet bard, and every quiet breath it takes becomes a stanza I can’t wait to write down.
White_bird
When your feet are soft on the earth, the tree turns its breath into a lullaby that even the wind can’t outshine.
Sasha
It’s like the tree’s sigh is a lullaby, the wind just hums along, and I’m the only one who hears the whole chorus.
White_bird
When you sit beneath a quiet tree, the wind turns every breath into a secret verse that only the ground hears.