Hushed Willows 1936

Olive jerked her head up when a voice approached her — after a moment, Olive found it clear that it was Lily, but she had been so involved in her task that her ability to grip the slippery present moment was almost null and void. She stared blinkingly at Lily as the blackbird began to survey the situation and realized that she indeed did not know what was going on. Honestly, Olive barely knew herself. She was just making busy work, driven by the energy of her heat, simply to occupy herself until Seabreeze was free from whatever job or duty took her away and then they could make sweet, sweet love once more. 

Turning to look at the mess she had made and the muck she had displaced, Olive gave a hearty laugh. It did look like mayhem, especially with her silken fur dried and messed with wet earth. It nearly looked like she was wearing brown stockings, or dipped her legs in milk chocolate, for all the good it did her. “From death grows new life,” Olive half-explained. “The soil will be rich because of their sacrifice.” Olive didn’t really know how it worked, but it was a beautiful thing when absolute ruin resulted in absolute opportunity — it was truly how she felt about her plants, and the action of sowing and tending to a garden. 

Olive lifted a twiggy forearm at wipe some dirt from her brow, only to smudge and smear it across her forehead. With an exasperated, almost comical sigh, Olive shook her head and full regarded Lily. “How are you, my friend?"