she's no saint but she'll take you to your knees
try her boy but she'll still do what she please
As a beast of habit she is vulnerable to repetition and circle: and in this moment history does indeed mimic itself, and she… in her own way, follows through with some ancient ripple of what was and what had been.
Vine and fern, the mossy rock and thick canopy- the low mist of the jungle: she walks through it, paces and carries herself down trails and paths- over hill and down again in time. Patrolling the edges of vast territory she recalls this from another time, and remembers the days of the gray mare: stubborn and frustrating, a creature of harsh words that lacked sugar.
Prague.
Her lips curl into a scowl and Aysel can only think of how she used to walk the Amazons- how she used to watch the Jaguars and Panthers lazy in their trees as they soaked the sun in the wake of their kills. She recalls the smell of the loamy mist and earthy soil, the taste of sweet-leaves and of flowers that only existed in that place. Still, she is more so stalled suddenly by the sound of shifting branches and of rattling leaves, the rocks moving and the ground beaten in light thuds.
Whimsy and careless her daughter appears through the shrub and foliage, through the brush, and Segolene saunters to her mother with a newborns spindly legs and drunken awkwardness. She brushes the fluffy mane with her nose and ruffles the girl’s neck- her eyes falling to the spatterings of gray and the blanket on her back… the spots of color so bold and dark.
Contrasted by the vibrancy of her mother’s own red, Segolene is stand out and Aysel remains with the girl before urging her forward and guiding her through nettle and vine: through the tree line and into a more open space. Without huff or panic she lingers, allowing the child to play and run- watching and considering all things as she peers around Tephra.
