Wheeling Gull Isle Man Machine Poem

The thought of the sky changing so much didn't please Thresher. She thought that the sky should be either blue or dark, not the unusual, smoky grey, bled through with orange. The scent of ash was unpleasant as well, and that was what she didn't understand- would the sky always smell like this? Or was this simply a phase that the sky went through as well? She had questions, but verbalizing them was not her strong suit. She didn't like the way the air tasted or smelled- it made her nervous, for a reason she couldn't explain. Despite never having seen a fire before, Thresher instinctively knew that smoke was not a good thing. 

She drank from the stream, and wagged her tail slightly when Moorhen touched her cheek, relieved a bit that whatever this summer was, it was almost over. Of course, she misunderstood what it was Moorhen was trying to convey- but if summer meant the smoky, ashy smell, she'd be glad it was over. As she lifted her head from the stream, a few droplets of water dripped back down, and she snapped at them, trying to catch the water before it hit the surface. She giggled, a breathy, quiet sound more like a gurgle than anything.