Status: complete
Dreamscape
Sonata
I do not know how to tell her what I already know.
The frost is nipping at our feet again. Every year it creeps further and further South. We are forced further and further away. She laughs with me, she tells me that I have brought the cold with me, that I am her ice baby. Soon this lake will be frozen over, too. I worry for her.
Without really meaning to, I begin to hunt with a ravenous thirst. It is my focus, to fill myself, to draw the energy in that I will need for my long flight ahead. Wirrar will not come with me when I hunt – instead she returns to our book and tells stories to the wind. She says that if the wind is a part of me, the stories will come back to me as I fly.
I do not know how to tell her what I already know.
We will not return here. Already, the frost has come too early. Next Winter this place will be too cold for us to hunt, too frozen to grant us nourishment. We will skip over it like a stone on water.
I cling desperately to her, in the final days. I feast on her silver feathers and her long legs, I immerse myself in her dark eyes over and over. I want so desperately for it to be enough.
This morning I wake up and I know, I feel deep in my skin, today is our last day. Today I will kiss goodbye to the lake with the tips of my wings. We spend our day side-by-side until the afternoon, when I must hunt for the final time. I kiss her goodbye with the very tip of my beak and she does not know, she cannot know that this will be the final time. She says she will see me soon and I close my eyes.
I hunt until the sun dips low on the treetops. It is bad game in the daytime but I have to fill my empty stomach and still my draining heart. When I return to the frozen moss-branches of the forest by the lake, the flock are restless and shifting. Some early risers take off in anticipation. I am determined to stay until I can see her face again, to get one last look at her long nose and dumb, skinny legs, but the sun is rapidly setting and we are running out of time.
Wirrar, where are you? I try desperately to still my shifting body, but my instincts are against me. It is time it is time, it is almost time, we have to go, I want her here so badly but I have to move, the frost will arrive with the moon, I am shifting now and my wings spread out of their own volition, it is time it is time it is time it is –
In one great rush we take off in to the biting air, we are one pulsing mass and I am at the heart of it, I am our lifeline. Thowra!, I hear her calling, Thowra! I try to double back, to turn back to her, but I am being pushed and pulled in all directions, I am forced backward by the wind, I am pulled backward by the flock,
Thowra!
I am driven away by the frost.
The frost is nipping at our feet again. Every year it creeps further and further South. We are forced further and further away. She laughs with me, she tells me that I have brought the cold with me, that I am her ice baby. Soon this lake will be frozen over, too. I worry for her.
Without really meaning to, I begin to hunt with a ravenous thirst. It is my focus, to fill myself, to draw the energy in that I will need for my long flight ahead. Wirrar will not come with me when I hunt – instead she returns to our book and tells stories to the wind. She says that if the wind is a part of me, the stories will come back to me as I fly.
I do not know how to tell her what I already know.
We will not return here. Already, the frost has come too early. Next Winter this place will be too cold for us to hunt, too frozen to grant us nourishment. We will skip over it like a stone on water.
I cling desperately to her, in the final days. I feast on her silver feathers and her long legs, I immerse myself in her dark eyes over and over. I want so desperately for it to be enough.
This morning I wake up and I know, I feel deep in my skin, today is our last day. Today I will kiss goodbye to the lake with the tips of my wings. We spend our day side-by-side until the afternoon, when I must hunt for the final time. I kiss her goodbye with the very tip of my beak and she does not know, she cannot know that this will be the final time. She says she will see me soon and I close my eyes.
I hunt until the sun dips low on the treetops. It is bad game in the daytime but I have to fill my empty stomach and still my draining heart. When I return to the frozen moss-branches of the forest by the lake, the flock are restless and shifting. Some early risers take off in anticipation. I am determined to stay until I can see her face again, to get one last look at her long nose and dumb, skinny legs, but the sun is rapidly setting and we are running out of time.
Wirrar, where are you? I try desperately to still my shifting body, but my instincts are against me. It is time it is time, it is almost time, we have to go, I want her here so badly but I have to move, the frost will arrive with the moon, I am shifting now and my wings spread out of their own volition, it is time it is time it is time it is –
In one great rush we take off in to the biting air, we are one pulsing mass and I am at the heart of it, I am our lifeline. Thowra!, I hear her calling, Thowra! I try to double back, to turn back to her, but I am being pushed and pulled in all directions, I am forced backward by the wind, I am pulled backward by the flock,
Thowra!
I am driven away by the frost.