Abloom

There were two creatures, an eagle and a fox. Both considered themselves cunning hunters, the eagle, of swift and swooping strength, the fox, of craft and camisade. They lived apart, one in the sky, the other upon the ground (and sometimes within it). So, it was very queer that they should fall in love.

How this mutual ardor took shape is lost to the annals of the wilderness, whose history, vast and nigh immortal in the telling, is not written but grown in the soft swards and ranges of coppice, in timber, in dirt, in beavers’ dams and wild cataracts and rapids. The love lingered in the forest long after both beasts had died of broken hearts, their hopes unconsummated, their sky and their land prisons after all.

Yet while their love was abloom it shadowed the earth beneath its odd cloud, what earth there was beneath them. It never rained; it filled the sky, its shade warm, even unto those little creatures that fell prey to the carnivores.

And if you don’t believe it, there is abloom in you the same fire that scorches the sward, that burns the immortal history. Such flames lick the center of the heart until cinders remain of blood and muscle. Holding embers within your chest begets smoky speech, so pay attention to who you pay heed, and watch for smog on the tongue. Remember clearly love on the wing and upon the ground (and sometimes within it) and do not pollute the earth with your disbelief.

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