The Sunspire my dove, my lamb

The little philosopher rollicked into life without a worry or a cry. In the womb he’d snatched snippets of both siblings’ palettes rather than wear a pelt uniquely of his own construct — he liked things easy. He’d been content in utero, but he was content here, too; though it wasn’t possible for him to achieve such a feat consciously at this stage, his little mouth was curved in a natural smile. He took his time leaving his previous digs, took his time on the way to the milk bar. One paw reached out, bumping into his squalling sister, and his mouth gaped like a gecko’s, gumming at her hip. Oh, this wasn’t what he wanted. Poking his tongue out, he casually sauntered [read: worm-wiggled] his way to the back of the line and latched on, but not with any real sense of urgency. All things would happen in due time.

Life was good.