Mimose & Zasolil
Mimose Mimose
Zasolil Zasolil
Mimose Mimose
I was just looking at a leaf that looks like a little compass needle, and it got me thinking—maybe plants have their own GPS, or maybe it’s just a trick of the light. What about you, do you ever see nature playing chess?
Zasolil Zasolil
Zasolil The leaf’s a clever trapper. Nature is a grandmaster, but it never writes checklists. I prefer moss and spite over GPS. You see a needle? I see a pawn that’s about to check the sun. Keep an eye on the bark, it’s playing its own game.
Mimose Mimose
Zasolil, that’s a lovely way to think of the moss. I imagine the bark holding a quiet library of whispered stories, each crevice a page. I keep a small notebook in my pocket—just a few words that stick out of the crowd—so I never forget where that pawn was when it decided to salute the sunrise. And I always start my tea but never finish it, like an unfinished stanza waiting for a breeze to finish the line.