You hear me try out my second, half-baked rewrite, as I watch you knead the dough that will become bread. You feed us so well, because it matters, because nourished bodies birth sounder poems. You work so calmly and listen, listen so thoroughly, as if preparing a meal for eighty were a simple task, requiring only half your attention. You listen, and cook, and listen. There's more shade here.
Dreams grow like ferns under the cover of denser forests.
The bottom of the sky is richer and further away. The river is loud. Maybe it wants to silence me. Not forever, just a few moments, so I'll stop and close my eyes to hear how different the current sounds upstream, and down. There's more shade here.