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This is the season of love, of ever-chasing butterflies and circling stars; of fluttering hearts and starry eyes; it was a rosy-tinted world last night, with the still beauty of the night begining to sneak over us.
I went first, thinking I had little time to do so, not with any purpose: with no friend to greet me, I was free to wander in the rosy tint of dusk before the fireflies came out: I marveled at it, the richness of its color, seeping in as it was into the pale of my legs and belly, into the brown of my antlers. While there, I found a sleeping Lemon among the birch trees, and I sat with her, for a time.
I came back, unexpectedly, later. And there she was, as she was yesterday, part of some tiny miracle in this, the season of tiny miracles. My spunky lady, my goddess, sweet Payton -- my Persephone, oh lovely flower-lady, of hycaninth and poppy and soft dandelion, stolen away by the world, always, but always returning, sooner or later (Though whether I am then, by extension, Demeter or Hades is an excellent question). We ran and skipped and laughed for a while, before she had to take a short break.
I then went and joined Peppa and her father Seth, as well as another fawn and a few other deer: I had to admit, I was charmed by how sociable shy Peppa was being: perhaps it was the security of having her father there that spurred her on, or maybe she is growing, as a fawn must. One of the stranger-deer set to pick a fight -- and I answered him, laughing all the while.
Then we were joined by Payton, and later, even Lemon. It was nice, seeing these deer who I considered part of my family, though odd patterns and extensions, the three most important does in my life and their families, all together, sitting or dancing by the shimmering, crystaline waters of the Crying Idol.
