Ana’s train of thoughts rumbled over tracks, though she was not awakened by them—for whilst she sawed logs—tonewoods, to be sure, via subtlest of audibility, strung for only the most harmonious vibes, like a sun day’s flop in a field of fawning fauna, they built for her a dreamed destination, where a chord of mellowing memories ever melodically moved her mind’s melding minuets. ; )
