A rusted nail, bent and smoothed by rain.
The clean smell of pine resin after a thunderstorm.
A footprint in wet clay that does not belong to me.
The sound of a single branch falling, somewhere too far away to see.
A child’s drawing of a house, left on the windowsill of a cabin that has been empty for years.
These are not fragments for a song. Not yet. They are fragments for a mood, and a mood is where everything begins.