It’s a strange place, this. Behind him (to both the north and west), lift mountains so tall that their savage peaks lay nestled above a thick swab of powder-white cloud, well beyond sight of the gravity-bound, and even while the sapphire sky elsewhere, stands vivid, crystal clear; their shadow bleeds hither as the reddening sun sinks slowly into the distant horizon. Dim, rocky feet are clad in a delicate rainbow blur of pretty swaying roses.

Trees, most slender and straight (fragments of black lifting up their stark white trunks), gather in bold assembly towards the east, like crows above death - and beyond, the deeper hue of emerald oak foliage, peeks between their body. The shadows therein are thickening, shifting, as the all-encompassing softness of day reaches a harsh and dramatic climax; the air he breaths, touches and feels, is golden.

The wind sings down between rock and crag, spurring leaves and long, colourful grasses to whisper and whistle in chorus; a family of vocal warblers (invisible in their forest castle), throw forth their own rendition and when combined, the background roar of tumbling water seems almost lost to the brazen melody. Amid it all (beneath a flimsy green awning), stands staring, a decorated buck and his more modest harem of four cows, one late-season calf; they are unsure about this feathered pair of interlopers.

All of this, Noah’s fine-tuned senses absorb, for he is on guard.

Already the stallion is skirting the patch. His nostrils pump aggressively against tall, wiry blades, drawing out the faint scent of those who have been; their taste, though pale, ignites a fresh fire of testosterone and his energetic ears work furiously to dissect the ambience. Above all else, Noah searches for the sign of another like the predator fought previously - this time he is ready…

Sea-green eyes turn back at last, though only when he is satisfied that this weary dove is safe. A smile tempts the corners of his pastel white lips, while he examines her thoughtfully, post-flight. The guilt still plagues him, scolds the selfish restlessness that saw them so far without rest - the day too grows tired, but as she retires from the journey, he feels a surge of confidence through his core. She is picturesque (more so than before), and his thick breast swells; he feels all too fortunate that she trusts him so.

Though she runs to warm down he saunters nearer, cautiously, quietly, rattling fanned nostrils so that she might hear his presence and not shy (they were after all so far from all that had become familiar). “Nora," he begins, lifting his voice just so while the wind and the birds carry on, “are you ok?“ He has grown fond of the dove, so much so that a frown furrows his brow when he perceives that she might be fatigued.

“We…” Noah thinks deeply, glancing from her to the leaf-littered soil and the dim shadow his tall figure threw down upon it. He wasn’t sure how to suggest it, that they should shelter here for the night… so instead he asks her to, “follow?” ...and drives a gentle, patient course towards that steady, thundering water. Surely he could find her a den. Should she feel the need to pause (certainly he allows her the time), the sun-kissed creature also stops, watches and waits - they are in this together.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior