Of the sagas and songs Freyga can call upon to warm a fellow’s ears, the youngest is her own. She sings it alone to herself, strumming her harp, eyes closed, rocking with the rhythm of her word-waves. It begins now, dreamed of but unwritten, recorded only by the mindful repetition of words that pop like pollen from a fresh bloom. It ends when she ends and will leave to others the tale of its telling.
I, hope-hearted,
Wandering, wayfarer,
