07-23-2016, 10:06 AM
Rowling
Little one’s can only play alone for so long. I mean, it's okay and all, he made due but its not the same as having company to frolic with. Thankfully Rowling had quite a few brothers and sisters to keep him company, but not every day. Sometimes they didn't feel like playing or sometimes they just wanted to do their own thing, Rowling had learned of this easily enough. They never shooed or shunned him but he could take a hint when someone needed alone time. There was that certain look in their eyes, the way the lines crossed their features. Also there were even point blank times when they girls would tell him to go away, and Rowling didn’t need to hear them say it to know to be on his way.
Girls were silly like that, or at least the little roan thought so.
Anyhow, there he was rolling in the snow, kicking his legs wildly as he tumbled on his back. He probably looked absurd but he didn't care- Rowling did not embarrass easily. Besides, he didn’t have time to care what he looked like, not when there was fresh snow on the ground.
As he tossed flurries sprinkled about him, flew this way and that. Some of them still clung in his ebony hair, unyielding to the sun because Rowling willed them to stay, A few dotted his lashes and even more coated his feet, caking around his hooves like thick shoes.
It takes him a while to notice the bird, even as it calls to him, caw, caw. Rowling couldn’t hear a peep of it, not a sound at all. Instead he takes note of the inky colored avian when he rolls back over to his side, shaking his head to spray snow like a sprinkler. His head tilts to the side, curious of the creature before him. Of course he has seen plenty of birds in his life, plenty like this one, dark and plain. Nothing strikes him as out of the ordinary about it except that it is unusually close, much closer than most birds would have come. He doesn't mind though, actually, he likes this new closeness.
Now if Rowling was sure of anything it was that birds did not know letters, so he didn’t bother with the usual ‘Hi’ in the snow. Instead his little ears wiggled happily on top of his head with his excitement as he formed his own bird. One like the bird that was so near, except his bird was made entirely of snow and though it opened its mouth, no sound came out. Rowling didn’t know what sounds birds made, he had never heard them.
After his creation is done he looks hopefully at the real bird, proud of his work and hoping that it too likes it.
Girls were silly like that, or at least the little roan thought so.
Anyhow, there he was rolling in the snow, kicking his legs wildly as he tumbled on his back. He probably looked absurd but he didn't care- Rowling did not embarrass easily. Besides, he didn’t have time to care what he looked like, not when there was fresh snow on the ground.
As he tossed flurries sprinkled about him, flew this way and that. Some of them still clung in his ebony hair, unyielding to the sun because Rowling willed them to stay, A few dotted his lashes and even more coated his feet, caking around his hooves like thick shoes.
It takes him a while to notice the bird, even as it calls to him, caw, caw. Rowling couldn’t hear a peep of it, not a sound at all. Instead he takes note of the inky colored avian when he rolls back over to his side, shaking his head to spray snow like a sprinkler. His head tilts to the side, curious of the creature before him. Of course he has seen plenty of birds in his life, plenty like this one, dark and plain. Nothing strikes him as out of the ordinary about it except that it is unusually close, much closer than most birds would have come. He doesn't mind though, actually, he likes this new closeness.
Now if Rowling was sure of anything it was that birds did not know letters, so he didn’t bother with the usual ‘Hi’ in the snow. Instead his little ears wiggled happily on top of his head with his excitement as he formed his own bird. One like the bird that was so near, except his bird was made entirely of snow and though it opened its mouth, no sound came out. Rowling didn’t know what sounds birds made, he had never heard them.
After his creation is done he looks hopefully at the real bird, proud of his work and hoping that it too likes it.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure