The bright sun rises above the mountain’s breast while cheery birds dance in the still summer’s breeze and tall grasses purple the hill side. The crickets and cicadas have gone to rest leaving the morning still and quite.
Bright kaleidoscope eyes search the room from the haven mommy made. Tiny fingers, too small to hold all the muscle and bone wiggle up to greet the day. Little legs pump and a single squeal of delight punctures the silence, bringing the song of birds.
In the
other room my blond hired devil angel whimpers at her dreams while long awkward
limbs twitch. She’ll wake soon as well, this mommy knows, with a grin and
request for milk, chocolate milk. Normally I’d say no, but this morning may be different.
The Puffet
finds a bone, there among her toys, a gift from Grandma to sooth her teeth and
gums. With the strut of a novice crawler and the grace bestowed on her by her
name sake, Little Quillian heads off in search of a new adventure.
And thus is
this morning, on the brink of a season change. The Hunt is nearing and this mommy
feels the call. The darkened lullaby spurs my fingers across the keys, sends whispers into my ears. The voices grow, a jumble of words driving me to the brink, bringing with them the near frantic need to hide away and put their wonderful stories down for the world to see.
