An old beech tree sighs, or maybe it was a groan, who but the tree could say for sure? This particular towering giant cradled a secret sleeper. One of its many different residents, a fat, grey squirrel clamors for familiar footholds -- his big, round eyes sharp as a needle and wary. He notices an odd shape lodged against the butt of his home and two thick branches. An annoyed bark flits past his lips, but the instinct to flee overrides his desire to protect the great wooden castle.

My tail is half-wrapped (for a sense of security) around the silver, scratchy limb I'd bedded in; catlike, it would ever so often twitch the tuffed tip from side to side. Both pale lids are still shut to this world, lulled by the calming wind, who spent the better part of last night tickling the bellies of the few remaining leaves and whispering sweet nothing to the naked twigs. Scarce few other sounds. A murky morning greets the dark, wet wood; moist fog had rolled in during the wee hours to cling upon the faded wheat and wilting thistle. Somewhere East, behind a thick layer of smoky cloud the sun was rising, it would soon burn all the gloom away.

Shutters creep slowly open, their hazy depth is only half-aware. I stretch my neck out, (mindful not to tangle these weighted prongs on anything,) while a wide yawn split this jaw apart. Crown tips until my chin is resting against the solid limb beneath me. One feathered wing shuffles lazily against this warm flesh. Just beyond this aged mammoth was a meadow that stretched far South and West as far as my eyes could see. Rolling mounds, littered with stunted bushes and wide open spaces. I'd eventually emerge from my perch, return to the trail, return to familiar migrating. Though not yet...not when there was still enough shadow to convince my mind that slumber was still feasible.

By the time I'd stirred again, the morning had moved on without me; marched forward until the distant sun did breast those invisible mountains to rid this open valley of gloom and mist. Perhaps my dozing trust, (so alike that of a newborn,) was because I lacked the apprehension that came with age. It's still comfortably manageable to flit in and out of sleep without worry, without fear. My relaxed state can only be described as peaceful; unmarred.

At least until the noises change from a quiet whisper of wind rustling the dry foliage, to one of more fluid expression. The listening part of my consciousness notes the alteration and sends my awareness to brush against its glassy surface, eventually breaking through. A song. One without words. Lids flutter open once more; one lazy ear slides forward to capture and use rough imagination on the manner of creature that stood out of view. The beautiful hymn is quiet, expressed at a such a low volume that I've already halfway pitched over in the direction of those soft, beautiful cords. These hungry ears had never heard anyone sing before -- Mother certainly never educated her son to appricate delicate culture.

From the corner of my vision an object darts from around the way, fleeing from direction the lovely melody was coming. My groggy self can't move swift enough follow its movements or make an assumption of the species; though these eyes flick rapidly as it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. Only a little birdie, I chide. There is a sudden coolness dampening the heavy crown I bore, those unexpected droplets glide down across my marrowed prongs to mate with glossy sunburst silk. A light sprinkle showers my spine with a cool mist.

This head turns, forgetting that lovely voice; confusion had proper rein and I'm left to sort out the source of this unexplainable moisture dribbling from the leaves. Born from a clear sky? My questioning stare is answered, (though in hindsight, I would in a few moments wish it hadn't been.) Another sparrow shaped thing catches my attention, it resembles that of a simple songbird; at least by the shape. Those feathered wings carry it to a nearby branch high above my head. That is were all likeness to our living, breathing world did end.

With a fixated stare I slowly come to realize that those feathers, though seemingly solid, are semitransparent. Liquid. Without my realizing the lower portion of my jaw drifts open and both eyes widen. But their size is mild compared to the width they take when the creature suddenly explodes. That's right...explodes! Water droplets are violently flung in all directions, a quiet gasp turns into a shriek. Limbs find their way beneath me and pinions extend rapidly to escape this unknown danger. Valiant effort is made to achieve lift, but in my rush I'd brilliantly missed the fact that there are branches blocking the way.

Still...I mindlessly thrust past them, clumsy at best. There is a brief sensation of falling, then rimmed darkness as the ground quickly finds me sprawled across the wilted foliage. Tail, hair and feathers tangled in a lump, my vision returns. With spurred energy I rise, hardly feeling how my right side screams from the solid hit. Gems turn to behold a tall youth, a child really, angled on the other side of the beech.

I don't spare time studying her appearance or age....or anything for that matter; instead, my first reaction is to warn this innocent soul of what horror I'd just witnessed. A frantic rush of idiotic spew comes flying out my mouth ahead of the mind that was supposed to control such nonsense, "There are BIRDS up in that tree!!" it wasn't until after the words had left me that I realize how crazy they must sound. Saucer eyes regard the girl with unrestrained urgency, I've already began backing away from the accursed thing, "E-e-exploding birds I mean!" The image of that tiny critter puffing up like... "Poof!! They went." Surely she saw! I couldn't I have been the only one to see...!?

The first rational thought to sprint across my mind after blurting out those rash, idiotic rabbles was that she wouldn't believe a word of it; and my reaction to those little feathered creatures dying a sudden, horrible death would be cast into the pile of insanity. As I draw enough oxygen to steady these trembling legs and actually spare more than a half glance to the one I'd warned...well... to me, she didn't appear fearful, or even slightly concerned. At least not in the way I'd expected. Then the young lady starts speaking in the most collected, nonchalant manner possible; I couldn't stop my jaw from doing another unimpressive drop. This girl suddenly made me feel like a small child, bleating over ghools and wisps.

Wary eyes widen slightly, and more questions than I'm comfortable dealing with have begun to pile up behind my awestruck expression. I want to laugh out loud at how absurd this situation was and scream a string of distasteful curse words. Thankfully for us both, neither come out. There was nothing normal that could suddenly alter their...as she put it... composition. How in the world did they do that? Do all creatures water the plant life here? No, my rational side pipped, that was the first I'd ever seen. Had these eyes not just beheld the feathered...thing...bursting apart; my reaction would've been light humor for the first fool that told me such things are possible.

Before words could form and rattle off anything extra -- she pointingly thrust a question of her own. To which I felt was redundant and of little importance considering a miracle or curse had just made wildlife turn into water. Why was I the only one who saw something wrong with that!? "Uh...sleeping," comes a subdued reply as her stare drifts to my antlers, which have grown to feel hot beside my ears. "Trees...I-I sleep in them." What did it matter? Lots of folks slept in trees. "Quiet," my tone drags at a rasp, "It's quiet up there." Back to more important things, "Do all the beasts here exp...-- change into water?" Then to myself, but obviously loud enough to be heard, "How is that even possible?" Maybe this was a dream... Testing this suggestion my weight flexed unhindered to the lean upon its bruised side -- another unhelpful grimace twisted my muzzle briefly. Nope. I'm awake.

Her exceptional consumption of air all for the sake of 'chiding,' would amount only to a blank stare. To me, there was no point in standing around arguing about whether it was right or wrong to sleep in trees. I certainly didn't see the need to waste oxygen or further energy in upholding or justifying my presence in that beech to this know it all girl. Besides...there wasn't time to offer a rebuke even if I'd wanted to. No sooner had she finished scowling, the young thing took off on what she obviously assumes to be a perfectly reasonable explanation/answer to my disbelief. I'm treated to continue standing by like a newborn, ears drinking (or rather drowning) in her words.

Considering my ignorance of this land, its culture, ect -- this mind only manages to understand a small portion of all that was said. Most (all) of her attempts to clarify, only provide kindling and fuel for yet more questions. There is a solid ache forming within the deepest retreats; the beginning of a slight twitch that would eventually increase to a throb -- the first step of a migraine. A soft shake sends the orangeburst silk flying across my brim, those stray locks fall to mask further befuddlement. The feathers on either side twitch, (forgetful of the bruise that was slowly forming beneath their weight,) nearly reacting on impulse to speed off as my knowledgeable company offers to provide an example, "N-," the word dies on my tongue as this crown rises to see her stare averted off.

I steal a glance at the clear heaven above and feel a surge of confidence rise above my fear. These wings could easily out pace most tweeter birds. Right? This newfound comfort was slightly dented when from the loins of earth she fashioned two great beasts; who look like a cross between bat and lizard - neither of which were like a creature I'd ever seen before. Both brows draw themselves taunt -- my jaw remains open, frozen on an unfinished word. These eyes follow their motions with awestruck shock; I didn't bother asking what they are...not when I was still trying to grasp the notion that they are.

Both gems rotate between the two harpies. Magic, she called it. This jaw shuts like a claw trap, "Magic?" I gave this creature and her crew my unflinching attention. All the while taking a noticeable step in reverse; this was stuff straight from a colt tale. "Y-your...a..a.. witch?" Long ago Momma had told me stories about innocent looking individuals who gain immortality by consuming the flesh of their kin -- they are rumored to have special abilities.

Truthfully, I'm still so surprised and taken back, the wiry youth in me doesn't take offense toward her defense -- or even blink at the callus way she decrees my conclusion to be 'silly.' That gilden horned yearling could've cursed my stupidity and trampled my ignorance beneath the soiled claw of one of those lizard creatures -- it wouldn't have made any difference. The robed girl defends her honor on the stance that she was sired with those...gifts...which would render my previous concern utterly spent. (Since it is said that witch's gain their powers by every which way, minus being inbred.) Still, I remain unconvinced; this soul is by far old enough to know people lie as easily as they breath -- that dull drag of her tone didn't sooth the frayed nerves which are stung from anxiety (though but it didn't worsen them either.) I've been listening and saying nothing; questions mount higher, approaching their limited capacity.

Grass, stringy roots and soil matter began to creep around her lower limbs. I stiffen, the hot skin on my spine jerks and both ears drift further back along my adorned skull. Dappled rays of sunlight shone down on us both -- creating natural ripples against the living canvas. My eyes snap from her lean ankles and forlegs, they land upon the soft, dry flora around us. Those autumn blades quiver beneath a breeze, bending willingly in whatever direction the wind seemed to take. But no stringy creatures came up from the earth to ensnare me, the suspicious wanderer.

Her flat conclusion doesn't delude me from taking one more careful pass of the ground ahead and around, "No, I'm not," at least there's some strength returning to my tone. These vocals are increasingly steady. Hopefully, she isn't expecting me to go into even vague details of my past; I couldn't say that I'd originated from anywhere -- my mother had labored and delivered me on the road. She raised me up on those worn trails between countries and whole continents. There is no place, we (I) traveled to and lingered at long enough to settle. But this life didn't bother me; migrators, or gypsy's aren't uncommon. "I've never heard or seen anything like that -- only in stories." Stories pale in comparison to witnessing the truth of this...oddity. "Could you...stop doing that?" There was a slight quiver that I'm not proud of, "Please..." I wasn't going to OPENLY admit my fear of this strange vixen.

An agitated snort for this little ray of mystical sunshine fans these nostrils apart. Her talents and manner of wielding them are distracting my miniscule desire to ask any further questions, not to mention it was still frightening my unsure nerve. "Uh." Was all response those bored remarks deserve, I was bold enough to wonder if she'd be offended by a sarcastic lash -- then instantly (wisely) decided against it. Seeing as those bat things still lurked on either side. "Guess your pretty d-... special..." Hooray for you. My forelegs unhitch, they tremble but grow firm by will. I didn't grace that last statement with an immediate response -- Miss Special, could have the damn tree and all the grass below it.

I'd already exceeded my personal expectations for this conversation. Purposely this frame shifts, pivoting in the completely opposite direction of the girl, "Good luck with..." Good luck with what? My mind chucks out a poorly handled reply that mimicked her callus way of address, "Life." All ivory feathers tighten against sore ribs. I'd almost forgotten about that... with fearborn reluctance these lungs draw a shaky breath and turn my eyes away. Leaving this witch who wasn't really a witch to peer at the distant treeline.

Later, when my heel prints are miles from here (and her) -- this whole adventure would have felt like a dream, one I'd find the courage to laugh at. Cackle at the foolish fear of a child and her tricks, ride it off as the excuberant fantasy's of a tired gypsy. Surely none of it had been real. Surely. That is the bull this brain would fabricate as it tried to convince itself out of a hole. But this heart would known the truth, and tonight I'd dream of her. The silken blood stained cloak she wore and its unusual decor. Those gilden horns and the calculating mask worn as either a wall or inability to feel empathy. My midnight scape would be filled with random mud beasts of every shape and size -- some as small as a blade of grass and others (the nameless ones) towering above the mighty elder red oak.

But for now.

Walking away....before anything else can happen.