Swiftcurrent Creek fold out your hands; give me a sign [birth]

I have no idea what the heck this is, I might delete it and rewrite it.

It is warm in the summerland, always. So warm that even the river has a temperature to it. Drinking from it does not summon relief any more than the oppressive humidity in the air when one takes a breath; it is stifling, this pressure. As of late, it has only gotten worse. The pressure leads to discomfort and the boy who isn't yet a boy - this little seed lodged in the mud - feels sluggish and distant. The seed trembles and from the ventral edge it cracks, like an egg, to reveal a tiny tendril of green.

Overhead the sky rumbles with deep, unpleasant notes. There is a storm coming — and a part of him needs it, but he is afraid. Things are changing. The seedling reaches for the sky and unfurls a new leaf, and the first drop of rain falls, striking it - then the rest, as the clouds rip open and the storm surges in waves. Soon the soil is darkened by the rain and the dry clay turns in to a slick red — a saturation of carmine that feeds the seedling, but it tates wrong. Its metallic and dirty as opposed to crisp and clean and right — he is not ready, he needs time — the earth rumbles and as the quaking of the soil matches the rumbling of the sky.

The seedling isn't a seedling anymore; whatever conciousness he held has awakened to something more. He feels the earth slide, slick and red, like the river. It carries him deeper and he chokes with a mouth he didn't know he had — gasping, fighting, as his clayborne shape molds in to something more capable. Light flashes overhead, but this time it comes with a voice — and the voice is soothing despite his lack of understanding.

The boy is not ready but he cannot stop the process. He is transformed, and somehow the process brings him away from the summerland; he is transported through his conciousness to another world and as his body slips free of his mother's womb his thoughts of the summerland have begun to drift away -- he clings as best he can, unwilling to change, to give up the simple life that he was being granted — but as the boy's nubile body touches the earth he feels a calm. A sense of knowing, a trust, that this is where he is meant to be.

As Dawn cuts through the sack around him, little Stone feels that omnipresent pressure lift, and he gasps his first breath. He is reaching again, this time with his stubby paws, and lightly brushes his new toes across her cheek. Mother — he loves her, so, so much already.