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A wooden bench, old but still sturdy, on a hill.

A hill, with vast expanses of green, and a view.

A view of a lake, calm in the winter morning, a stray ripple disturbing its surface.

A ripple, fleeting yet sure, mirroring first light.

First light, peeking through the clouds, onto a dewdrop.

A dewdrop, glittering now, on  a blade of grass

A blade that shuddered in the slight breeze.

The breeze which whisked her hair from in front of her blue eyes

Blue eyes, deeper than the lake which she looked down upon,

As she sat on the wooden bench, old but still sturdy.

Alone.

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