Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
This time Lena flew – out over the boundaries of King’s End, silver and rose feathers taking rise on the summer thermals and the eaves of ease along the breeze – searching, as she’d always done in Stormbreak, for pockets of serenity or enamel of tranquility. The Last Step had been a favorite last time, perhaps because she could land upon the upper stones and dangle her feet over the ledge, never bothered by the heights with her own shifts within to consider – a fall wouldn’t amount to anything when the skies weren’t even her limits.
Mittens hovered close behind, and they eventually landed upon the top stone. Neither daunted by the precariousness, Lena shifted back, sitting and settled amidst the rock, and judging portions left in her basket. All the herbs and stores were different here, and there’d been plentiful enough sweetgrass lately to plant in their own new gardens, and to potentially make some sort of dessert this evening.
Mittens hovered close behind, and they eventually landed upon the top stone. Neither daunted by the precariousness, Lena shifted back, sitting and settled amidst the rock, and judging portions left in her basket. All the herbs and stores were different here, and there’d been plentiful enough sweetgrass lately to plant in their own new gardens, and to potentially make some sort of dessert this evening.
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
