When first they knew of changelings,
they didn’t know what to do. How to tie
these precious children, these beloved strangers,
these not-their-own,
so that they would stay?
How to get back their own,
who they would never get back?

And so they invented familial obligation,
and respect unearned for all elders,
and self-sacrifice for those who neither asked nor wanted it.

They didn’t understand that healthy love ties stretch,
that wandering feet do not have to mean lack of home,
that just as growth requires change,
change requires growth,
and growth becomes both appetite and food.

They didn’t see that not all people require roots that are attached to place.
Or couldn’t.

Changeling blood blooms strange, sometimes late, sometimes never.
Wind calls it, and water, and roads, and words.

And beyond the mists, nomads want to give their own beloved strangers,
their own not-their-own,
wings instead of roots,
wandering feet instead of bedrock to rest upon,
discovery of more than the safety of a known horizon.

Pity us? No.
But know that when I listen to the wind,
I know you hear it too.
Yes or No does not hurt the wind.

Are you hungry?
Come walk with me, and feed.

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