Thursday, February 23, 2017

The Seamstress and The Owl

Photo Credit:  Adventures in the Wild

She ducked beneath the naked branches of winter, feeling a bit of sympathy for the trees that seemed to shiver, and traveled onward.

Her first clenched tightly around the gift, she wondered if he'd be waiting.

A few winter birds seared the white-cloud sky, the early air as crisp as burned foliage.  She inhaled deeply, watched each breath escape her lips in tiny little circles of mist.  Oh, the small things!

The world was as white as a gas-lit lantern, the kind of overcast morning that set your inner clock to a mis-tick.  For the veil of creek mist camouflaged the village.  Were you to wake from a brisk nap, you wouldn't know if it were near-dusk or post-twilight.

With her closed hand held against the warmth of her breath, she traveled on.  She was close now, she could see the glint of the river calmly roiling against the flailing light of nights' last shallow stars.

Yes, he was perched on the old log near the bank, calm as the deepest sort of meditation, unflinching as her old soles crunched their steps across the icy landscape.  She strolled calmly toward him.  He was as regal as the first day they met, his eyes as welcoming as the warmth of a summer long spent.

In so many ways, he was her only friend, and so she held her hand toward him, spread her fingers to watch him eat.  Like so many days past, he ate with a brave certainty, trusting this kindred soul dressed in the flesh of a young girl.  Once full, he would doze as she unburdened to him her worries, and embroidered, with flowery words, her life stories.

Written for a prompt at Mindlovemisery's Menagerie.

1 comment:

  1. Thanks Stacy for contributing to the tale weaver I very much enjoyed your response.


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