There was another.
I've heard of her.
She walks with a limp. Stray eyes would slip and forget at first glance.
But I see straight through her.
Shes an unknown.
She's an Angel.
Not in the strictest sense of the word.
But an angel of The Wood.
I've watched her mend a burnt gash in bark, breathe life into a drooping toadstool.
Call on the earth and grow a dozen black roses in the dead of December.
Just because she could.
I've seen her smile the way people do when they think they're alone.
Except I was watching and she could only assume paranoia at my presence.
Tick tick tick went her intuition but she tamped it with a shaky smile.
She'll tack it as waylaid anxiety.
Why does she ignore a dying tree?
All I asked was for her to turn around.
But she is too young to see.