She's standing barefoot in a frosty meadow, spirits of the forest singing gloomy tunes and birds chirping with the rising sun. The fog lifts while silver drops of dew sparkle in the ascending daylight. The frozen strands of grass bend and crunch beneath her toes. She walks toward the dawn. Night pools at her feet, sinking into the ground. Dripping gold across the waves of copper framing a rosy face, warm light falls on her cheeks. She raises her arm in greeting to the birds, and one flies to sit upon her fingers. Its tiny talons pinch at her skin, and she smiles. For the first time in a thousand years, she curls her lips and sings something new. No more mellow songs. No more empty gazes or longing looks toward the east. A new thousand years begin with a melody to the sun, which is only heard by those who know to listen intently before the first golden drop of dawn.
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