Swiftcurrent Creek I make mountains out of stones

two days have passed since the birth of her children, and her bone-deep exhaustion has not ceased. she'd expected a kind of sudden relief, the return of her previous form and newfound energy. her children may be born, but she can do little more than curl around them and drift in and out of sleep. 

she wakes in the afternoon, aware that rain falls lightly outside and the den smells thickly of petrichor. she stirs, glazing blurrily down at her children and feeling unable to do much more than that. the hurt is a dull throb, now, though she doesn't dare test it by attempting to stand. she calls lightly into the stillness outside the den, hating her need for comfort but hating her solitude even more.