Welcome to Gaia! ::

The dewdrops catching the first light of the sun made starfields in the meadow. Wren's wings turned to capture the morning breeze and he banked hard over the rippling stalks of gold and green. Keeping low over tufts of dandelion and milkweed, he extended a paw to graze his claws through them, sending up a spray of white spores.

His beak clicked and made soft whistles as he dipped low and with three clumsy flaps of his wings, he settled onto a branch. From a small pouch belted to his leg, he drew paper and ink, scented of red berries. Plucking a feather from his wing, wincing at the pain, his eyes scanned the field, lost in its beauty.

The commonwealth was everything he wanted, but he felt he'd seen it all before and it had become tiresome. His muse was starving and for a fortnight his prose and poetry had been sloppy and without rhythm or passion; words without meaning behind them. Many crumpled balls of paper littered his nest and the only ink he had left in supply was crimson.

So he'd done what was fool's errand to do; he'd passed the last scents of the commonwealth and struck out into the wilderness beyond. Not far, mind, he was only a few hundred wing flaps out, in a small clearing with a copse of deciduous trees. He'd not told anyone he was going, for when inspiration dried up, the last thing he wanted was company to muddle his mind with ugly words and too much noise.

He spoke aloud as he made long, sweeping motions with the quill, using a free claw to keep the parchment from curling.

"Shadows snapping mirthless fangs in the quenching night
The stalking glow of tawny eyes, licking chops that haven't fed
Inky legs and mindless whispers, shuffle, seeking bleeding red
All draw back from speckled gemstones that in first light ignite.

The tide of jade and harvest wheat, swirling in tandem waves
Billowing, breathing, making short work of the witching hours
Drawing an ethereal glow..."

He paused, staring, beak opening and shutting with a series of clicks. He let ink drip on the paper from the quill as the next words played on his tongue. He gave a snort of frustration. "taking in the morning's power? lighting the petal of every flower? To chase away the moonside's dour? ...Dammit."