Not searching, I stumble across my comfort.
Without notice, I find a hidden place of secrets.
How could this be real?
The thoughts of others come upon me swiftly,
but they pay no mind to what is hidden in open sight.
To them, I don't exist;
an insignificant wanderer who sits beneath a tree.
With pen and scraps of paper as her only companions.
But unexpectedly, I become the only one who takes the time to see them.
They can't see me (or they choose not to,)
but I all but clearly see them,
as they pass me with their backs against the sun...
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