12-08-2015, 10:39 PM
 ***She is so firmly grounded. ***Rocks and seafoam-green lichen, soil, the tangle of roots, tree bark, willowy new saplings; she is: the flutter of bug wings, the trill of passerines, the slow bleed of one season into the next. Clockwork, and inevitable. Defined by the shades and smells around her, and one ill-fated warbler nestling. A vast network of neurons, pure instinct and blood-fed flesh. Unconventionally forged, but grown in the quiet womb of a mother, like anyone else. Unremarkable — ponyish and rosy, an agelessness that has its limits. It will run its course, and the youthful character of her step will capitulate to sore joints and the call to surrender oneself to the ground. ***So unlike the death of a star. A mighty knell of energetic heat and light. Implosion. No, not nearly as magnificent as all that. ***She knows nothing of the stars. Nothing of their unthinkable size or their striking impermanence. They are distant, a perspective she cannot observe from. They had played audience to a dalliance, and the damp heave of birth, but she does not call them friend. They are poetic, mysterious works of the Mother, but they lay beyond her realm of intellect — conceptual at best. And she is a scholar. A collector of information and readings, an observer of behaviour and biology. Everything she knows, and has yet to know, surrounds her with sound and scent. ***They are so separated. A wide gulf of galaxies and comets; a mesosphere, stratosphere and troposphere, incompatible atmospheres and tugging gravities. Unimaginable, and yet her look of isolation and want is undeniably alike. It impels the mousy mare, ever drawn to moments of familiarity and newness. “Hello.” ***Cirrocumuli dapple the bright blue shoulder. ***The little mare looks up curiously, watching an acrobatic display of thrushes. ***“You are brilliant.” Her voice characteristically soft and thoughtful. She turns to head to better watch her with a big, brown eye. Two things compromised of magic, and given home in opposite halls — the mousy mare, a simple weaving of nature; and the sky-mare, a physics equation. “I am Vineine.” ****‘...Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’ |
took way to long, many apologies.