The Puddle

On a hidden dirt path through an ancient forest
There is a special puddle that never goes away
A large assembly of feathered creatures come out
Early every morning to chirp, splash and play all-day

In the water of the puddle, bird games are made
Nearby, in the soft grass, tired little bodies lay
Peacefully sleeping, perhaps they are dreaming such
Sweet dreams of tomorrow that will bring even more play

One might think, after observing these rituals
That all birds live only for this singular moment
With the sun shining bright and their friends all around
Happiness spreads and grows, and blooms with clear enjoyment




Thank you for reading!

Ayaris
















The brother of the first wolf had succumbed to his wounds but did not die naturally. Yv nrj efn nrcbzex kyv wfivjk rj re leuvru, possibly jgivruzex kyv uzjvrjv vmve dfiv. Z jnzwkcp glk yzd ufne reu slievu yzj ivdrzej ze kyv jrdv jgfk rj his sifkyvi.

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Mayan, in the year 814 AF.