Twinkling grass stood still in the gentle night, a certain Beginning about it. A starling flew silently overhead. Under sleepy stars and the canopy of rosewood, a Fawn slept. In her dreams her hooves beat upon the ground with vigor, the rushing woodlands streaking by. And then she was a young boy with pitch brown eyes picking the scab off his knee. This is all very normal. A soul cannot be lost, it can only be rebirth.

The spindly trees threw ghostly arms up atop her, enamored by Time. For in Time, her old bones grew a better coat, a mossy coat. Yet she dreamed.

And so the boy was lost in the forest again, trousers ripped and face bloody. He searched for the old grim tree, the old, old grim tree where the apples are a little sweeter and the moss a little greener. The world seemed painted to him as he walked further and further through. Short strokes of different greens and blotches of brown scattered his way, and he soon found himself by a valley with golden grass waving slightly in the dusky wind, the very beginnings of frost crawling their way up the stalks.

It was there and here, then and now, that the boy found the bones. The moss ha formed the shape of a deer,, and he thought it strange. Moss lied torn next to his Muddy shins as he held the ancient bones.

'Ours' they told him.

'Hours' they said.

'Power' the boy grinned.

'Plougher' they told him.

And so the boy lied down next to the old bones and that was when the moss decided it no longer wanted to be a deer, but a boy. And he dreamed.
He dreamed of raging waters, swirling depths and aquamarine pools of deep blue. And then he was a beetle, a small, shiny beetle crawling up the laurel bush.

© Salem Ferrel, All Rights Reserved