Gray. It's always, always gray. The sky. The mist that winds between the grass blades that cling to the ground so far below. Even the concrete buildings in the distance, the ones that don't belong to her, the owner and keeper of these vast grassy plains.
It marks the boundaries of her territory. Concrete walls that hide what goes on inside. A marbled cloud ceiling of 2000 feet at the most. Mist that exemplifies the mystery and allure of the unknown, an equally tangible and intangible substance that is blown away easily, yet leaves tiny droplets on the feathers of her wings when she tries to fly away.
It can be considered silver, she supposes, in her endless musings as she makes lazy circles.
The buildings are absolute and do not multiply and encroach on the green of her property.
The mist and rains are calming and keep the grass green and healthy.
Even the clouds, in their permanent stability, promise that storm and strife are far from inevitable.
But she wants more. More than the gray, more than the green of the grass.
Something that's more intangible than the mist that permeates her little world, something more valuable than the gold she thought would be better than her silver.
So she leaves her endless circling. So she angles her wings to glide towards those far off buildings with their ambivalent promises.
Not even really wanting them to join her territory, she just wants her curiosity to be sated. Beauty does not include concrete, in her mind.
Quickly, the ground approaches, and she pulls red-brown and cream wings backs to catch the air and slow her descent right where it is.
Bare feet hit sidewalk, and she decides she doesn't like it. She shakes her wings and steps forwards.
The mist is thick here, more so than the plains that she knows like the palm of her hand, and she feels justified in her dislike of the buildings and her slight appreciation of the cool dampness that coil around her legs.
Sidewalk leads to perpendicular walls, which are detailed here.
There is some nature here, far from her expectations, a thin and twisted little tree tree that is in the midst of hibernation. Bare dirt and weeds grow among its roots.
And then something moves in the mist that obscures the outline of the farthest side of the building, and she is diving for cover behind the tree.
She is the interloper, and pride will only kill her.
It marks the boundaries of her territory. Concrete walls that hide what goes on inside. A marbled cloud ceiling of 2000 feet at the most. Mist that exemplifies the mystery and allure of the unknown, an equally tangible and intangible substance that is blown away easily, yet leaves tiny droplets on the feathers of her wings when she tries to fly away.
It can be considered silver, she supposes, in her endless musings as she makes lazy circles.
The buildings are absolute and do not multiply and encroach on the green of her property.
The mist and rains are calming and keep the grass green and healthy.
Even the clouds, in their permanent stability, promise that storm and strife are far from inevitable.
But she wants more. More than the gray, more than the green of the grass.
Something that's more intangible than the mist that permeates her little world, something more valuable than the gold she thought would be better than her silver.
So she leaves her endless circling. So she angles her wings to glide towards those far off buildings with their ambivalent promises.
Not even really wanting them to join her territory, she just wants her curiosity to be sated. Beauty does not include concrete, in her mind.
Quickly, the ground approaches, and she pulls red-brown and cream wings backs to catch the air and slow her descent right where it is.
Bare feet hit sidewalk, and she decides she doesn't like it. She shakes her wings and steps forwards.
The mist is thick here, more so than the plains that she knows like the palm of her hand, and she feels justified in her dislike of the buildings and her slight appreciation of the cool dampness that coil around her legs.
Sidewalk leads to perpendicular walls, which are detailed here.
There is some nature here, far from her expectations, a thin and twisted little tree tree that is in the midst of hibernation. Bare dirt and weeds grow among its roots.
And then something moves in the mist that obscures the outline of the farthest side of the building, and she is diving for cover behind the tree.
She is the interloper, and pride will only kill her.
