A small town, billions of miles from here. “Here” matters. “When” does not matter.
A little girl. A big girl. She plants trees. She hunts for frogs. “Hunts” means “looks”. She does not
kill. She climbs trees. She climbs them by the pond. A strange person is in this place. He is
there as footprints. He is there as a clean scent; she hates it. He is there as a chunky white suit
with his face behind. He is there with questions. He is gone.
“Thyme?”
She looks down at herself. She is small. She is tall.
He is gone.
“Long?” She speaks to a frog.
“I am not long. I am long. The pond is long. My hair is short. My hair is long. This place is not
his.”
She does not speak to a frog. She finds a frog in the water. She holds a frog in her tiny hands.
She puts a frog on a tree branch. She finds a frog in her pocket. This place has many frogs.
This place has no frogs. This place is beautiful. Frogs are at this place.
“How long have you been doing this?” He says it.
She will see him here. She won’t see him here. She has seen him here. She hasn’t seen him
here.
“You are here.”
“What time is it?”
A frog jumps into the water.
Clamor 