How strange it is to observe Bunim from the ground on which he stands. I feel supple, yet rigid simultaneously. I am no longer Maya, but a blade of grass that touches the walking stick that he leans on. I feel the vibrations of his thoughts transmitted through his hand through the ancient wood he holds down to me. He is not like the others. He is not disconnected like they are. His senses are attuned to the winds, as mine are. He knows that change is coming.