Many are born in the sun, reaching for the golden ball and drinking in its liquid fire. Nourishment. Sunlight. Life.
Born of the night, embracing and becoming one with the darkness. Tiny pinpricks of light from dying suns too far away to count; starlight and a new moon. It was dark between the trees, a wealth of limbs and leaves, blocking the sky. By day, it would protect from the ill effects of staying in the sun too long with no thought to a youngling’s new hide. But at night, the darkness was like a sticky liquid, heavy and pervasive, almost cloying and nearly eternal. Two faint orbs glow, reflecting back a silvery purple. It was the middle of night, the halfway point between sunset and sunrise, and all that was seen below the canopy were two tiny embers of life.
Born of the night, embracing and becoming one with the darkness. Tiny pinpricks of light from dying suns too far away to count; starlight and a new moon. It was dark between the trees, a wealth of limbs and leaves, blocking the sky. By day, it would protect from the ill effects of staying in the sun too long with no thought to a youngling’s new hide. But at night, the darkness was like a sticky liquid, heavy and pervasive, almost cloying and nearly eternal. Two faint orbs glow, reflecting back a silvery purple. It was the middle of night, the halfway point between sunset and sunrise, and all that was seen below the canopy were two tiny embers of life.