She was not the listener.
Zemani looked past him, past the houses, past the ironwood roof where she had not slept. She looked at the mountain, which was no longer a mountain but a body —sleeping, turning, thirsty. Zemani Lika Spring. Part 2
Zemani.
Not a whisper now. A word. Shaped like her name but older, heavier, as if the spring had been practicing it for decades. She was not the listener
She lit no lamp. The dark was a teacher. past the houses