Night Heron always rose with the first light of the morning. Though he hadn't seen a sunrise in many seasons, as long as his body knew to breath, it knew when to rise. After all, the break of day had sound and smell, too. First was the sound - the birds roosting just beyond the canopy, whose songs foretold a pink haze on the horizon. After the birds came the dizzying scent of flowers as they arched their faces toward the light, drinking in it's warmth. If the large, night-colored buck had failed to rise with the first two signs of the morning, one would be right in assuming he was forever still beneath the tangled Mangrove he called home.
Heron hoped he would be so lucky.
The Mangrove was old, sun bleached and heavy with deep green leaves and blackened moss. Greenery hung from it's boughs like a patchwork curtain, all beautiful and natural shades, but it made no difference to the blind buck. Songbirds danced just above his rising head, narrowly avoiding braided vines and silvery spiderwebs as they swarmed. Bees could be heard buzzing deep within the heart of the tree, but they never bothered Heron any, and after a while their subtle song became like a quiet heartbeat. He stretched as he strode, comfortable among the familiar sounds, past the protection of his tree on heavy hooves.
"Born again." He breathed as the great moss curtain abandoned his backside and cold morning air filled his lungs.
He was miles away from the familiar hum of the swamp, a sound that only served to startle him now. The flat lands were far more useful to a buck with such particular interests. The land offered him many divine items, most of which he managed to identify without the use of his sight. The buck counted twenty paces from his Mangrove to a lone stone, an unusually flat surface that Heron had been fortunate enough to survey before the light escaped his eyes.
His Altar.
The stone was adorned with many a skull and horn, fur, scales and an unimaginable number of whole wings and feathers, all offerings from the Motherfather. All found in the sands of the flat lands. All curious and powerful totems.
This is where he came to drink in the morning.
When Night Heron discovered there were very few watering holes near enough to his Mangrove to avoid a perilous journey, he fashioned a clever system of flora in place of streams and ponds. The night brought cold air, which brought cold dew. The moon would shine down upon the droplets of water, imbuing them -- empowering them. As the sun stretched over the land, forcing the dew into the earth, it ran down a tangle of leaves and pooled in a large abalone shell at the foot of the altar.
And there, Night Heron would drink of the moon.
"Brother Sun," He began, lifting his head from the brimming shell as he spoke, "You may be a warm spirit, but you lack the subtlety of your little sister."
He spoke, of course, of the moon, a wise and maternal deity whose silent grace had left a great impression upon the old buck. She brought a strange light to his dreams - a voice that never failed him.
"I've been told, you understand -" The buck continued, trailing into a fit of mumbles as dreams returned to his eyes."- that a great bird will come to me. The Moon claims it, and so it shall be. A great bird will come, and the bird's eyes will shine just as the eyes of my kin."
He took up a slow step, braying as he circled the stone, warming his hide beneath the encroaching light.
"I'm not put off, no... the Motherfather rarely bring me company, this is true, but If the moon promises her to me, then she is a good omen. A useful thing, yes."
Now all that remained was to wait for the curious bird to arrive. The buck had yet to torture himself with the possibility of failed expectations.
