Wapun Meadow But before I can fly up

AW

the morning hush was her favorite song.
eulie dawn moved like mist over grass, paws soft and steady, stirring dew but never stealing it. the sky was brushed in lavender and gold, the world still caught between dreaming and waking. her favorite place to be—between things. not quite this, not quite that. a little like her.
she hummed something tuneless as she walked, a lilting thing her mother once sang. or maybe she'd made it up—she could never remember. the covey didn’t mind. they said songs belonged to whoever needed them most.

The early morn used to be a comfort for him. The warmth of the sun, its rays sneaking into the den of he and his missing wife. Warming the fur upon his back and the fur upon Rala's side, in which he used to nuzzle against with greed and reverence alike. A comfort now gone—stripped from him without warning, without a goodbye. 

Now, early mornings felt hollow. Dreadful. Every day his eyes would open to find their den empty, was a day he'd spend yearning. Grieving. The whisper of her scent, now fading and stale taunted him. The side of her den once lush with her hides and pillows now bare, as he couldn't stand the sight of her comforts. 

And still, despite the pain and despite the hollowness that sits in his chest, a song calls to him. A woman calls to him. The Covey gal he'd met a while ago, who'd sang a song so sweet that the southern man might have forgotten his pain, if only for a moment captivated by her. 

That same lilting note he'd come to yearn. Selfishly, terribly—because who was he to want anything? To wish for a reprieve for pain he was meant to feel? It's a strange divide, one the man who'd come to face many hardship, was not brave enough to confront. 

It was terrible of him to find comfort in another woman while his heart still aches for Rala. Cruel, even. 

And yet, her songs is like a siren calling her sailor out to sea. He cannot resist. Each step is heavy, but the closer he comes to her, the lighter he feels. 

There she is—hugged by the morning light, as much a vision as the last time he'd seen her. Wasn't it so cruel that his dreams, which should have included his missing wife, had her written all over? 

For a moment, he simply watched. Admired, before her melody brought him closer. Slowly, and with a tired, not-quite smile. "Mornin, Eulie. Been a minute since I last seen ya." His voice gravely, rough. Exhausted. "How ya been, songbird?"

she didn’t stop hummin’ right away, but her ear flicked. not 'cause she was startled—she knew who it was before he even spoke, could feel the ache in his steps. the weight of grief had a way of carryin’ itself in the bones.
her voice trailed off gently as he came into view. the mountain wind caught it, carried it a little farther down the hollow where the trees stood still and listened. her pale eyes softened when they landed on him, not in surprise, but in a kind of quiet knowing.
eulie dawn, she corrected, kindly but firm, like a mother straightenin’ a collar. her smile was soft as thistle bloom. folk forget sometimes. but dawn’s part of me. always has been.
she shifted a bit, makin’ room if he wanted to sit, though she didn’t say so. didn’t need to. her voice was warm, rich with that drawl of the hills and hollers. i been the same as ever. pickin’ berries, singin’ to the creek, mindin’ the quiet. still got my bones, still got my voice. that’s more than most.
she paused, just a heartbeat. let the quiet settle again before tiltin’ her head just so. you look tired, dolce. like your soul been walkin’ farther than your feet. her gaze didn’t pry, but it saw too much to pretend otherwise. you hungry? a gentle offering—comfort wrapped in simple words.