Paying My Respects

My face tilts slightly, ear lifted and listening, regarding this next explanation with due care and undeniable wonder. The longer we balance here, teetering on the knife’s edge together, less becomes my brooding dislike and greater grows invested interest above good sense. Without knowing it, my free fingers have taken another stride towards nonchalance, climbing hither to sweep a lock of loose auburn from my face. In a brazen show of rebellion, even before I think to halt them, their steady motion collects the rim of my blue and green, tartan hood, and pull it back half way along my head. Light illuminates my exposed face along with the rooted ends of both muddled braids and dreadlocks; dyed string wraps snugly around a few in small, uneven sections, though whether these are visible from the angle of Jigano’s seat is uncertain. It is clear that I have a good amount of hair buried behind me though, possibly an indication that my health has not suffered the way of my posture. Vaguely rosy cheeks, residual hue after such a brash bust of feelings, sit above the yet tentative curl of a half-smile. Tolerance. The defiant hand falls heavily back to its perch inside the mouth of my concealed bag. Without speaking again for a long time, I allow my mind to digest the strange quality information it has received. The moment feels dreamlike, surreal, and I wonder what Old Mother, or Delah, would think about it all. At the same time, my eyes watch openly as the intimate relationship between the pair plays out; Isuma treading her human like an infant of the same kind, is indisputable evidence that supports his story. A measure of true trust is clear. The concept, so unlike any experience I have taken previously, is a bewildering one. The creatures of this forest move as completely seperate entities - as is my understanding. Nevertheless, I at last offer my nod. Accepted. Treating myself to another long breath, it occurs to me that I really need to sit; the powerful fear-induced hormones since enjoyed, are draining from my lazy limbs and I can feel these begin again to tremor. Having reached the point of amity, maybe, and without revealing my weakness (no matter how glaring it was already), I suggest: “will you sit with me?” and move with aching slowness to find the fallen log originally intended. It is close, but time seems to crawl before my arrival. Without exposing my body any further, I curl into a shallow crouch beneath the dense, long veil of cloak and find good comfort atop the selected portion of crumbling, dead wood; I tuck long, translucent wings to the side so they aren't crushed in the process. The relief is instantaneous and I lean backwards gradually, finding support against a lopped branch spanning upwards. All the while my eyes monitor Jigano.