Our gypsy summer has concluded. Reentry into the winter kingdom gave me a sense of predictability, security. Though, (as is the way of the world) an exchange for our occupancy was required. The fare for roof/pasture is duties, responsibilities. Obligations stir my beloved eagle from the warmth of our bed. And as he returns to those grey-blue skies…the tingling, choking memory of our farewell makes my skin prickly and remorsefully cold. His naïve guarantee warbles in my ears. Ignorance wasn’t available, it couldn’t ease my concern with soothing, false promises. In this…I knew better than he. Who else has suffered first-hand at insanity of whim? Surrounded by fiends with banded fur; callous, triangular eyes and frozen hearts?

Life…is a sadistic lunatic.

Selling assurance to suckers who’ve become ignorant enough to have faith in falsehoods. There is NO oath, NO promise that would see him returned without fail…I could only wait for the eagle to emerge from that copse behind those walls. And spar against voices of negativity in my head. He’s long gone…but his name invokes a slideshow of portraits, to which my fayed self-esteem embraces and clings upon. A plea of opposition, the rejection of fabrication that danger would stalk in his shadow, “be safe.”

The nights to come are frosted with emptiness; fatigue intensifies, but only in the early morning hours does bleeding desperation ease off my sleepless soul…a fitful rest would come, offering a small moment of reprieve from sickened dread. But during the day, suppressed terrors take advantage and circle that stormy, internal turmoil like vultures following the scent of rot. Idle skepticism hisses from those blackened crevices, ‘your novelty wears thin.’ They cackle and sneer; poisoning, doubling the smog of discontentment until at last…I bare my teeth and snap at those jeering, intangible faces inside me, ‘stop it!’ Eyelids pinch shut, drowning those voices with the thunder of hooves.

Physical excision seems to occupy the demons in my head…

As do other things…

My subconscious has little patience for sullenness and unproductivity. She, the quiet resolve of logic, redirects and acts as guide…comforting frayed concern with purpose, ‘you aren’t alone,’ her eyes fall tenderly upon the swelling in my midsection.

Chores are called to arms.

‘A den,’ she suggests. The snug walls of that old accommodation have long rejected my entry. ‘Seek a new one.’ Inspiration contrives a scene; but the cold, hard floor wouldn’t be suitable to nest upon during labor and birth. ‘Find comfort.’ Reeds of sweet barely, foliage from the depressed foothills (still untouched by frost,) lichen from rocks and the feet of towering pines. Instinctual, maternal strength washes my entirety with ambition.

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Narrowed, yearning focus skims the bulbous line of merciless pinnacles. From this grassy plateau, they can just make out the rickety slope leading out into the wildness; and beyond, the iron heads of monuments. With numb concentration, I drive these jaws into the knee-high reeds; mouthfuls of grain are pulled upward, some dragging their roots... Gently, the tawny rods are dispensed on a mound of drying comrades. I’d haven’t found a cave suitable in size and depth – but these decaying annuals could be gathered/stored before the first snowfall made them moist and useless.  

Optics flick up, addressing that habitual desire to obsessively check on the ridge line…as if something might change in the few seconds… Optics squint, peering into the bluegrey canopy from afar. Two outlines…feathered! These forelegs tremble, the drug of elation is shot into my bloodstream. They break upon the scene and my pulse leaps into overdrive. The leader (also the largest of said pair) is who holds my attention. I could make out the curve and length of those arms; the pale abundance of hair and…bronze flesh as it fleets into view of that overcast sun. He’s…back! Mini me jolts awake. Relief clones itself, becoming lodged in the back of my throat; coiled knots smother the wild cry escaping these quivering, excited nostrils. Noah! Painted limbs rotate into action. Abandoning (for the moment) my remedial, therapeutic chore.

Snug feathers unhinge from their sheath, allowing the cool air to pass beneath. Dials prick forward, eager to dine upon the beautiful music of his voice. Ravishing hunger has taken control. My subconscious gracefully accepts the internalized mission to delve into that tender, sweaty heat of masculinity. These lips already strain, pleading for his metallic neckline, desiring the feel of milk and honey flesh. Those voices of negativity now cry to blaze a trail of burning kisses; delve myself in wild cords of unruly silk...

OC:

@Noah