Seaside Moors although I'm itty-bitty, sittin' pretty

sobeille let her senses loose into the world. she closed her eyes and listened to the howl of the wind. she imagined her paws reaching down, down into the soil like the hungry roots of the persevering trees. in her mind’s eye her skin and fur were the ocean; moving and stirring and ever influenced by the change of wind and the moon.

and in this deep imagining, she tried to pull from her searching senses this world’s meaning.

the wind was impossibly old. the stone she stood upon had existed longer than living memories. and the trees had seen nations rise and fall, each carving their small existence out of a chunk of rock incomprehensive to the life toiling besides it.

she felt deeply, but what of it, she could not say. finally she broke off into a sigh. i don’.. know. i wish we could close our eyes and be like de birds, flying over dis place when our ancestors were on it. she did not know if she loved this place; the challenge of it intrigued her, but she also wished for some profound signal that this was where they belonged. instead, all she got was the prohibitive shriek of the wind in her ears. what you be feelin’?