Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
The frogs’ cries echoed off the bulrushes and fronds scattered amidst the world, and Melita muffled her giggle – waiting for Milo to have his opportunity to snag. So while the amphibian wiggled and hissed in her grasp, her eyes flickered and followed as the smuggler latched onto another. A triumphant whoop howled from her at his announcement and proclamation. She raised her own frog over her head in a wild cheer. “What’s yours saying?!”
Fangorn had long since given up on the charade, and had begun to paddle and vine his way along the banks, the swamp bed inclines, and out towards another firmer section. The honeybee didn’t follow suit, far too engrossed and enraptured in the silliness of this bizarre game – and then she put on somewhat of a stage whisper, lowering the frog over the edges of the murky water. “Should we let them go, and see where they take us?” To follow? To wander? To catch more and more?
Fangorn had long since given up on the charade, and had begun to paddle and vine his way along the banks, the swamp bed inclines, and out towards another firmer section. The honeybee didn’t follow suit, far too engrossed and enraptured in the silliness of this bizarre game – and then she put on somewhat of a stage whisper, lowering the frog over the edges of the murky water. “Should we let them go, and see where they take us?” To follow? To wander? To catch more and more?
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
