[SE] Catch the Sun Before It Sparks Afire

I am my mother's child, I'll love you till my breathing stops
I'll love you till you call the cops on me

Melita’s basket, sewn and woven beneath the boughs of the Mathair, swung from her arm as she and Fangorn skipped and frolicked into one of her preferred places: the fields. They reminded her of her sister’s songs, her mother’s lullabies, the thick grass perfectly indicative of the meadows she once trilled and hummed within, blazed and emblazoned through, before the world fell apart, before she was hastened off into darkness. In the distance, she could see a gathering of birds, crows, blackened feathers catching the rays of the sun, and she held her hand up to shield her eyes as she stared at their expanse, wondering what it was like to fly, to spread one’s wings in the air and float on the wind. Fangorn hissed something, eerie, enigmatic gaze caught and distracted by a passing insect, while the girl watched, enchanted by their bewitching movements and motions, until she noticed they were doing something rather out of the ordinary. Her head tilted, her mind whirled, and so she crept, closer and closer, intending to figure out what the birds were conducting and concocting. Only when she noted another basket leaning against one of Rory’s fence posts did she take care to see ivory feathers amidst the onyx and sable, cranium twisting back and forth, trying to embody all of them in one major, maneuvering picture, a tapestry, a portrait, a canvas. They maneuvered like poetry, dropping things into the basket – very clever, like the rumor of all crows being capable of rationale thought – and when she meandered to peek into the containments, she noticed they were all insects, a familiar grasshopper-like shape with some otherworldly adornments. “Hm. I wonder why they’re taking them?” She inquired towards Fangorn, who had begun snatching a few of his own, grasping them with his fangs and tossing his head back and forth, as if they were a newfound trophy or prize. Melita withheld her grimace, but didn’t truly expect an answer. “Maybe we could help?” She shrugged, then lowered her basket near the other, very different from one another, then turned to her left, where another one of the hopping bugs managed to skitter by her. This would require some precision, which thankfully she’d been practicing and honing her skills within – reaching out towards the next, hands swift, fingers grasping, clenching, until it settled in her palm, and she made a victorious screech. M e l i t a But in our darkest hours, I stumbled on a secret power I'll find a way to be without you, babe