how glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains
The thorn is sharp; as you edge your finger over the top a small pool of crimson blood appears, little by way of contact required to break your thin, think skin. Still, you somehow seem surprised, exclaiming "Ouch!" and popping your finger into your mouth. Was it always spiky? Or are the thorns new, another adaptation into wildness, a sign the Labyrinth would rather not be tamed, thanks all the same?
"There's a little danger in everythin'," you remark in reply, the girl's voice still carrying like snowflakes on the breeze. "That's how evolution happens, an' adaptation- stressors and dangers causin' things to change, or else they die." The squirrel on your head seems unconvinced by your assessment, looking up at the girl and chirping some nonsense as though to say what is he even going on about?
You still don't look at her, and your lack of eye contact, your quiet body language- it answers the question to an extent, but still you feel compelled to ask, a little playfulness in your tone. "Are you a wild thing, or a tame one?"
"There's a little danger in everythin'," you remark in reply, the girl's voice still carrying like snowflakes on the breeze. "That's how evolution happens, an' adaptation- stressors and dangers causin' things to change, or else they die." The squirrel on your head seems unconvinced by your assessment, looking up at the girl and chirping some nonsense as though to say what is he even going on about?
You still don't look at her, and your lack of eye contact, your quiet body language- it answers the question to an extent, but still you feel compelled to ask, a little playfulness in your tone. "Are you a wild thing, or a tame one?"
