Every morning, without fail, she would be there. Standing on the rise, she would lift her hand and face and voice to the heavens, and she would sing.
For as long as they could remember, she was there, her song for the listening, marking each day. For some, that song carried them through their childhood, through the pain of adolescence, through the discovery of young adulthood, until one day they found themselves stopping to listen and then gazing down at their own children's faces to see the wonder there as a new generation heard her song.
For as long as they could remember, she was there, but even memory must end some day, and so too her song. So it was that one morning, when the rise stood empty, the air was still, the morning quieter than they could ever remember it being. So they gathered, and they placed remembrances at that spot, and they circled around...
Just a little background blur or different placement of the woman would have better separated her from the background. She almost gets lost in those eye catching colors and shapes. Lovely processing.
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