Myriad Skies

We are a forest, filled with creaking, sighing trees - evergreen, deciduous, lush and decaying. Leaves carpet the ground, and mushrooms flourish, safely nestled against the damp warmth of a city of roots, whose owners stretch out of sight above them, infinite. Animals carve paths amongst us all

Dusk is its own person, drenching the scene in luscious tones of purple and gold. Icy winds lick the leaves, petals shiver. It is stunning, but hard to breathe.

Evening is its own person, calm and excited, warm and cold. There is urgency, but nothing gets done. There is only time passing, and opportunities, and sleep.

Midnight is its own person, bringing silence, peace and darkness. A sky filled with trillions of fistfuls of glitter, aglow; a sky effervescent. It is lovely, but lonely... but lovely. Peace is not an easy thing to find.

Dawn is its own person, vibrant and full of life, so busy it hurts, there's too much to do but she will, and it will be beautiful.

Morning is its own person. She is never the same twice, but she is familiar all the same. Perky, distracted and bright.

Midday is its own person, and time stops. The heat is too much, we tear ourselves into wisps to escape it. He is vital to the world, though even the insects burrowed deep into the trees wish that the wrath of the sun Midday brings were more gentle.

Afternoon is its own person, filled with innocent joy and soft wings; clearings of amanita and wildflowers suddenly dappled, and welcoming, and safe. The scent of fruit from a thousand trees and shrubs hangs thick and slow in the air.

We are all here, every day, transforming the scenery... but we are also the animals, the clearings and the sky. We are the seasons, the birth and life and death of every organism. We are the mountains in the distance, the babbling of the brook, the hum of wings in the summertime, the lunar glow against ink-black shadow.

We are a forest, filled with creaking, sighing trees.