The morning was warm and the moisture floated mid air as the sun sniped the ground below eyeing spots trying to hide under the thicketed pocked clouds and canopy of leaves. On the edge of the woods where the sun would shine down except after a dance for some rain the Cherokee witch was at home, praise be to God. Her tanned arms hardly a hair to be found but underground her other half sang, songs of old from lands far and told.
The little rabbit with a soft round white tufted tail darted into the dark woods and the bright golden yellow house finch with a glaring spot of black upon his wings darted close to the ground and swept up into the river birch tree. Clay beneath her nails she dug the ground, some seeds she scattered others she planned with thought of the future growth on mind. This was the land the Dove Star would grow.
A subtle breeze blew through and the chimes filled the air with tender deep thoughts. The Cherokee witch stirred her pot above the open flame and gazed. The sun flowers stood tall and the pointy head of the royal red cardinals were all well fed. Stir she would her pot upon the open flame until the time when right was at hand.
Be still and listen
One day I will tell you a story
Monet painted the water lily over and over and over, a vision he curated for you to view.
When something becomes great it grows, but you know that, do you understand it though is a different question when dealing with something not tangible.
My great grandmother didn't care for my mother much because she was much more powerful, my mother doesn't know this. I looked through my great grandmothers eyes as some can do as I listened to her stories, mostly old news, nut never new. You see we witches see one another, some we see as kin and the weak ones see the good ones as a threat. We can feel it in the air when one walks by. We carry totems and degrees most can not see.
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