Under the heave of clouds, as if wings were not wings but a paintbrush loaded with water; a pelican takes its time washing the sky in meditative descent, and seems to never truly land. Now, with a dip of her prehistoric head — swallowed into a secret world beneath the skin of water — river ripples echo in my teacup. Steeping minerals; a bitter ferment from the deepest land that hands cannot reach. The root of legends. And in that moment, this massive earth finds a place for me. A melted ghost of myself comes back, staring down and daring me once again to release my breath.