The voice of the muses are alive the wind --a gorgeous sighing through their hair leaves, layers of curtains, uninterested in paths bridges waiting to cross the cool pouring of wet sunlight. (a child, like winter gardens, sips on the moon's dark breath)
A path is made where one walks. Obscured where leaves may fall. Interest on the part of any beholder unnecessary to the developments of ruts in the sand when the snake winds along.
