SPINDLY FLOWERS AND WAIST-HIGH GRASS AND THE SHADOW OF CLOUDS ACROSS THAT BRIGHTNESS, SHIFTING, LIKE SO MANY SHIPS IN THE SKY-
☙❧
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, the taste of smoke and ash on my lips and a faint but persistent warmth lingering in my bones.
The one tragedy, I think, of the fires is that they block out the stars. Even if they weren’t so bright, the smoke – which is so colorful and lovely near the ground – left to trail up into the night sky has the effect of blocking out most any sign of what lies above, like cloud cover. The little, bright embers have to take the place of stars, orange-gold sparks drifting on the wind like sprites until they disappear or go out forever.
I wonder, as I drift through the smoky, dreamlike landscape, what it might be like to be one of those sparks.
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, but it has not begun to thin. I am in no real rush to reach the treeline, though it does beckon towards me with skeleton-touches, half-bare branches extended out as though they, in their slow, creeping way, would like to swallow all the rest of the landscape. I’ve never been a tree, so I don’t much know what it would feel like to be one, but I do know what trees have always felt like to me. Ancient, and persistent, and towering, quiet and slow conquerors.
We had our festivals around the trees, back home, because there was nothing else. There were trees upon trees upon trees, and they composed our sky; they composed our entire world, swept over it like the upper atmosphere, kept us tethered down like gravity. This festival is out in the field, mostly, which is probably wise. The trees here burn. At home, save for in moments of war and tragedy, our sovereigns would never allow such a thing to come to pass.
(It would be irresponsible to admit to it, but I am only half-searching for the heir in this crowd. Of course I thought that they might be here, drawn by the crowd and the festive allure just like me, but that was never really my ambition in coming here, and, besides, my sleepy eyes have long grown too tired to be much use in searching.)
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, but there are still those colorful paints and bright jewels, turned to reflect the firelight; and those are what I approach, a tired smile tugging at the edge of my lips, as I wonder if I can find someone to paint me again (if my encounter with the so-called prince at the other party was mere luck, or if there are really many eager artists in Novus), or if I can, this time, try at it myself.
@Maeve || <3 || naomi shihab nye, "what's here"
Speech
☙❧
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, the taste of smoke and ash on my lips and a faint but persistent warmth lingering in my bones.
The one tragedy, I think, of the fires is that they block out the stars. Even if they weren’t so bright, the smoke – which is so colorful and lovely near the ground – left to trail up into the night sky has the effect of blocking out most any sign of what lies above, like cloud cover. The little, bright embers have to take the place of stars, orange-gold sparks drifting on the wind like sprites until they disappear or go out forever.
I wonder, as I drift through the smoky, dreamlike landscape, what it might be like to be one of those sparks.
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, but it has not begun to thin. I am in no real rush to reach the treeline, though it does beckon towards me with skeleton-touches, half-bare branches extended out as though they, in their slow, creeping way, would like to swallow all the rest of the landscape. I’ve never been a tree, so I don’t much know what it would feel like to be one, but I do know what trees have always felt like to me. Ancient, and persistent, and towering, quiet and slow conquerors.
We had our festivals around the trees, back home, because there was nothing else. There were trees upon trees upon trees, and they composed our sky; they composed our entire world, swept over it like the upper atmosphere, kept us tethered down like gravity. This festival is out in the field, mostly, which is probably wise. The trees here burn. At home, save for in moments of war and tragedy, our sovereigns would never allow such a thing to come to pass.
(It would be irresponsible to admit to it, but I am only half-searching for the heir in this crowd. Of course I thought that they might be here, drawn by the crowd and the festive allure just like me, but that was never really my ambition in coming here, and, besides, my sleepy eyes have long grown too tired to be much use in searching.)
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, but there are still those colorful paints and bright jewels, turned to reflect the firelight; and those are what I approach, a tired smile tugging at the edge of my lips, as I wonder if I can find someone to paint me again (if my encounter with the so-called prince at the other party was mere luck, or if there are really many eager artists in Novus), or if I can, this time, try at it myself.
@Maeve || <3 || naomi shihab nye, "what's here"
Speech
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
