A voice sent into open country and answered by the same country, back and forth until you can no longer tell where the calling ends and the listening begins.
I grew up bushwalking with my father, calling out and waiting for the land to call back, birds answering alongside the echo as though they had been asked something too. That reverberation is its own small myth in motion, a story sent out that only becomes whole once something responds, then continues remembering the shape of an old path.
This landscape holds the version I have carried since, mountains and light and water gathered from memory rather than from any one place, excavated back into being the way an echo returns changed by everything it has passed through. Even in distance, something always answers.