Wheeling Gull Isle Man Machine Poem

She kept her pace slow so that Thresher could keep up with her shorter stride. As it always was when there was a pup under her care, Moorhen split her time evenly between sweeping suspicious glances over their surroundings and carefully watching her charge. The girl was obviously still concerned. Moorhen followed her gaze, shoulders shifting uneasily as she searched for something to say that might be comforting. It is a waste of time to be afraid of the sky didn't seem like the right answer.

"Sometimes the sky is grey," said said carefully, coming to stand beside the stream. The water ran clean in the middle, but there were swirls of gritty grey along the edges of the water. She stepped into the flow and drank from the clear current and then lifted her head to see if Thresher would do the same. "Sometimes it rains. Sometimes it rains dry. Black."

She looked toward the horizon once more, feeling the sting in her lungs and the grittiness of the ash in her pelt. "Summer skies," she said, giving the girl's cheek a tender kiss. "Summer is almost done."