Talking Rocks

My mind wanders back, from time to time, to the place of the winding road where first I saw her… on Street. I don’t know who she was. She stood in the distance, leaning against the boulder of the Talking Rocks. The morning sun peeked through the sleepy dogwood trees; I leaned over the balcony rail, in hopes of catching a better glimpse of her. A wisp of wind appeared, as if from nowhere. She crossed her arms, shuddering in the cool breeze and turned to look my way. Then she was gone – disappeared, as if she been… dare I say a ghost? I saw her once another time, only briefly, late at night with the moon shining in her silver hair, wandering aimlessly down a dimly lit Street. I don’t know who she is, but sometimes, quite unannounced, she sneaks into my dreams. She says not a word and, quietly as she came, slips away into the pale moonlight down that twisted road beyond the talking rocks.