La Petite Rousse
La Petite Rousse
Summer Jane
The boots laced and the hair in the face, the warm wind that carries her away from this place. The tickets for the planes, the long sleeper trains, the search for direction from rusted weather vanes. She is the wizard of all this wandering, the illusionist who vanishes without the need for applause, or even the reappearance. She is the footprints leading to the horizon, the wind swept erasing of the directions she went. She is the wild blue in the yonder, the walking to stay sane; She is the lust in the wander, the adventures in the vein.