She disappears in the grass, small body folded in on itself, angles and corners, hair drifting in the breeze like milkweed.
A passerby strains their eyes.
“There’s something there by the pond,” they whisper to the part of themselves that believes in magic.
Thunder rumbles in the west, and they move on.
She threads one clover blossom through the stem of the next with freckled fingers.
A hare stands and looks across the sedge and chicory.
It sniffs and shuffles.
A shadow passes overhead and the hare escapes to the fence row.
She wipes her face and hums along with the cicada song as she continues the chain.
Tears and sweat are no different on the tongue.