Wapun Meadow i can be your china doll, if you wanna see me fall

Wirt woke with the dawning of the night, roused by the sunset as much as others were by the rise. Golden rays pushed lazy beams through the cracks at the forest’s edge, and only just touched the bough he sought shelter beneath. Languid, he unfolded from his tight ball and stretched his legs with a holding quiver, and recoiled only when they felt set in a readiness to tussle and wander through the open lands that shortly became his own.

He emerged tonight drawn by a shift in the night’s usual tune of cricket chirps and fox song. A crooning voice, perhaps a touch unrefined, but with a chorus unfamiliar to his ears. His shadow snaked forward, and a hum rumbled from the pit of his throat, an attempt to follow her serenade before he tested his own voice alongside with hers,

“Sink, sun, sink, a lover’s song to sing, for the one I love rests in the night, so sink, sun, sink.”

His voice carried even when he tarried to sniff at a peculiar flower wilted amongst the grasses. He could not see the young singer, and he made no rush, for his heart rested content whether he found her or not.