Where Stories Take Flight π
Step to the railing.
Breathe.
The valley exhales golden light.
The river writes its name in silver.
Below us: the world as it was.
Above us: a hum in the circuitry of stars.
Before us: wings.
Not the small, frantic kind β
but storytellers with sunlit armor,
compound eyes that have seen a thousand dawns
and chose to bring one here.
Hold on.
The observation deck is live.
The stories are just beginning.
And theyβve brought you a seat with wings.
EASTWINDPOEMS.SITE

