Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

Excitement and enthusiasm clung to her movements as they soared between rock, rubble, and stones, rushing along familiar pathways and amusing runes, spying idle streams, paying homage and reverence to the wide-open fields. They crossed old trails, leapt over known nettles, and sang out their convictions – wonderful, radiant, and valorous. A purpose had been laden across her mind, spiraling and convoluting through her membrane until it blossomed and brewed so meticulously, so thoroughly, that she couldn’t resist its call, its hum, its thrilling, potent exhilaration – so she twisted, she turned, she played a mystical ditty as they rampaged into thickets and copses, warmed by the notions springing in each step. Despite the summer heat, its boiling, hazy crescendo, her sun-kissed hide welcomed it like a caress, like warmth, like tenderness, ignoring the sultry waltz, the indignant maelstrom, bestowing only rapture and reverie into the hallowed sanctions of verdant, vibrant greenery, thistle, and clover. With the greenhouse nearing completion, requiring only a door, there was no point in waiting any longer, of biding her time, of watching and waiting for various plants to dry along the healers’ cave walls – they were now capable of storing the precious artifacts, the wholesome goods, to ensure everyone in their kingdom was alive and well. What better way to secure, guarantee, and assure assuaging motives, then to gain more and more of those beneficial herbs?
 
So she and Imogen sprung against the leafy indulgences, hummed a beautiful tune, and hoped the rest of her medic brethren followed her goals, her motivations, and her ambitions. Perhaps even foals would join in on their game, gain intellect, knowledge, and wisdom of what could heal them when no one was around to mend and stitch together lacerations, remove broken, mangled barbs, or treat the aches and pains of everyday endeavors. The world was always for their taking, for the swell of curiosity and the measures of defiance – and the Songbird glanced, from healer to healer, with a stalwart grin and an aspiring tone, filling the silence, the contemplations, with her glowing, dulcet enchantment. “We need to stock our new greenhouse!”  She winked, smiling at the notion, at the image of its fine, glassy container pooling along her mind. “Find anything you’d like! Ask about its uses and purposes.” Then a nod, strong and staunch, followed, spoken with the same lightness, the same crispness, the same bountiful luminescence, but with compassion riddled in its sanctuary. “We will make the Basin stronger than ever.”  The Songbird believed it, every word, every ounce, every note; then hummed again, lifting up spirits and refrains, for them to join in her chorus, for them to regale in arias and strains as they searched in endless anticipation for the next greatest masterpiece.