In the Month of May

I sit in the grass, surrounded by all of the tiny little animals I have encircled around me. I close my fingers around the few rested inside of my palm. I sit beneath the sun, burning onto my back and into my eyes, hands trailing through the cool grass, breezing across the backs of the figurines circled around me out-stretched legs.

These small inanimate images of real things seem to be my only friends.

They sit around me, quiet and calm, listening while passing no judgement, no assumptions. I smile at them, letting the last few fall from my palm into the circle with their own kind.

I sit and watch the sky, watch these inch tall figurines. They are silent, and listen to my incessant ramblings. At times, I do not even realize that I am speaking, letting words flow out from behind my lips I was unaware of thinking. They still listen, quiet and peaceful, calm and understanding.

I sit inside of the protective circle until the sky turns from sky blue to indigo and the clouds disappear into the dark. I sit and watch as the moon slowly overpowers the sun and casts cool pale light onto my skin, the grass, and the pristine circle enclosing me.

I step carefully out of the circle, careful to no disturb the figures, watching and listening to silent footsteps and light breathing. I grace each one with the tips of my fingers, whispering goodnight before stepping further away. I pray to myself that I will not wake up to find one of them missing, stolen in the night's calm.

I turn my back on the tiny village, a village full of open ears and closed minds. A village full of fools, tiny and helpless, thoughtless, taking every comprehensible thought from the ramblings of the ones who welcome them into their minds.

I walk away from the tiny village of figurines, quiet and still, and wait for the rustle of small feet and hooves and paws making their way through tall grass.
I wait for mere seconds before shutting the door behind me.