She climbs a tea tree, hides her clothing behind a rock. Her naked thighs shimmy along each knot of bark. She dangles her feet in emptiness. In between her toes, grass sprouts. Wind strikes the surface of a lake. Several years later, her home is uprooted. City fathers relocate her to plaza level, stone tiles awash in light. Pots of lavender throw shadows on her arms. She crushes grayish lavender buds and rubs them between her knees. Commuters exit from the station and sleep walk with coffee. Her friends are buildings who gather at her side. If she were flesh, she’d steal appetizers from restaurants, her navel pierced with a silver hoop and shoulders dusted in gold glitter. Instead only water flows from her mouth.