Wapun Meadow consonants

for the lovely @Grackle <3

melancholic clouds speckle a once sunny sky from where she flew. mandarin orange joins the other pastels of yellow and pink and blue in their ubiquitous spread across the rolling grasses. 

there is a song that Pancakes thinks, but thinking for a butterfly is always out loud. for a butterfly is an honest and true being, while many may think they lack intelligence, they merely lack a directive nature so many other animals in this world obtained in their youth and carried to their crumbling bones and ash.

Pancakes is a true butterfly, and therefore she sings as delicate and spindly black legs come to pass over the blooming petals with a loving touch. the slight breeze lifts her wings, and perhaps even her tiny voice may be heard by those who come near. perhaps with a sharp ear, they would hear the symphony of the other butterflies as well.

one recounts Shakespeare, comparing thee to a summer's day. a sootywing flirts dangerously with an admiral.
one sings Madonna, and certainly, she was a material girl! a tiger butterfly roared out her notes and greedily drinks up.

through all the noise, Pancakes' voice joins the rise.

"she's a sunrise dressed like dusk!"
(oh Pancakes, you silly thing, it's only morning so far– she must be talking of that admiral butterfly)

"going out, she's getting into something."
"he's a moth drawn to a flame"
(normally butterflies don't really talk to moths, but Pancakes was always an exception. and besides, sooty wings weren't technically moths)

"he's going in, he's going all or nothing!"