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If you listened closely, you could hear it. Even from far off, the delicate lilt of her voice, rising above the mangrove leaves- no, not above, murmuring with them. The leaves whispered an accompaniment, and the doe sang.

There were no words to her song, not this song at least. There were only notes, rising and falling and sustained, flowing from some unknown font of inspiration to the time of some unknown rhythm. And yet, strange, almost ethereal as her melody was, one could not listen to it without feeling a sort of rightness... oneness.

Certainly that was what the owl thought, perched in a high branch of a mangrove tree, looking down at the doe with it's bright golden eyes, head on a swivel. It cooed softly to itself, then suddenly spread its wings, descending from the trees to perch on one of the doe's tree-like horns.

As for the doe, she looked up with wide eyes, but her singing did not falter, it was as if she was not taken completely by surprise. She had felt it in the wind, in the trees, in the swampbeat. Change was coming today, she sang as much to the owl, and the owl cooed back at her.

"Where did you come from?" she finally asked, looking up to it, the notes ending but her voice still a hum. In response, the bird merely ruffled its feathers, then spread its wings, slowly flying to a distant tree and turning to look back at her. And she laughed, humming to herself, following it, wondering to where it would lead.