I SPEAK TO BIRDS AND TELL THEM HOW TO FLY ⚘ flower picking + drying

[aesior]

EVERY GRIN WE SHARE IS LIKE.
"speech." . 'thoughts' . attack

the few good days of weather meant that he should get out and about, picking the flowers and herbs that he wanted to dry for the fall and winter. it was best to get it done before the weather began to cool and plants to wither, though he couldn't wait for the beauty of fall to descend upon them. he loved the colors of autumn, the chance for warm drinks and to curl up close with loved ones ... with ... with loved ones. something felt so wrong to think that, pain beating in his chest for a short while, closing his eyes and pressing his paw to the painful thump in his chest.

exhaling, he looked around the meadows he'd taken over with his own gardens of herbs and plants. limping forward, he bent his head to sniff at the flowers that were growing in clusters, beginning the process of weeding his various plants within this meadow, the water-friendly herbs residing within their watery home not far from him. near to the tom sat a basket, already filled with a few stalks of rushes and cattails, vines encouraged to wind around the handle save for where he carried the basket by hands. beneath the stalks laid some tubers, his own paws and muzzle coated in drying mud from digging in the mucky bank of his pond.

sitting there for a brief break, twisting open the lid of a bottle that held chilled barley tea, sipping from it and sighing in relief at the wetness in his parched throat. rubbing sweat from his eyes, he set the tea down and twisted the cap back on, sorely finding himself wishing for company. where was cory in all of this? where ... where was the newest luminary? was he with firefly, looking after the ill former luminary? he took a moment to compose himself alongside the hurt that had appeared from practically nowhere in his chest, paw raised to it with a frown. this felt like when aristotle was gone, when he was on his own with their children. shaking his head, he would return to the business of picking beautiful flowers, tail swaying as he hummed a quiet song to himself in his head, to distract his mind and heart.

A PRAYER COMMITTED TO THE SONG WE SING.
aesior opheles of tanglewood. -- grim - feline shifter.

credit @/teef