My curls could be leaves crispy and crinkly they would frame my face and wave in breezy gusts while tethered to my head. Rustling. My limbs could be thin branches or preferably wing-things with soft feathers, they could flutter among the leaves of my hair. Whispering. My body could be some kind of nest a nourishing stillness to all the movement – the fluttering, the waving, the looser parts free. Steadfast. And secure as a hearth, a home. If I could really be a being – part of a new nature, a dryad-bird – a force that I am not.