In the Formel’s Garden
A diamantis perches upon a flower-throne, tarsi clutching spokes. Trellises shield her, leaves enclosing like curtains — but those vines compete with flowers picked and placed.
Azalea and carnations adorn creeping fig; a pallete pink and orange, in a three-step gradient, and the note of contrast is a sharp violet appearing in only four places. Three lie on her body.
But this throne is a seat not of importance, but secrecy. A garden sprawls, meadow-lush with flowers, dotted with trees liana-strangled or lightly twined with rootlets.
By the fringe, the flower-throne rises anonymous among many, while in the center stands a polished stone perch, as finely engraved as it is empty.
A gentle wind now blows through the garden, myriad leaves waving. The diamantis sways with it, her rhythm a calculated match. With the wind, clouds travel the sky above, and the sun carves a line of hours across the sky.
She waits, patient, until a tiercel arrives lured by her invitation. He moves antennae first, setae-feathered and waving outstretched like questing limbs. His eyes scan the garden, first one pass, then two and three as he steps inward.
Paths wind throughout, past the trellises, past the trees. He looks, he scents, but he does not touch the plants nor architecture of the garden. His eyes linger on the arrangements, and the quiet wiggling of palps is his awe. He does not speak for minutes of searching. At last, the concession:
“Where are you?”
He walks on, retreading every path until at last, his peripheral vision discards her throne, and at once the formel rouses — a lunge, silence retained even as stillness vanishes.
She pounces lightly behind him and her raptorial arm snap-extends — to tap once upon his back.
He startles, air hissing loud through spiracles, springing away. Wings flaring defensive, antennae rod-straight, he twists around.
And the formel bows, palps asmirk.
With a smile, the tiercel whistles praise ~ for a garden arranged like a sculpture, painted in color vivid ~ for a seamless performance of stealth ~ for a pleasant scare.
Patient Upon a Cragged Coast
Cloud-demarcated sunlight. Salt-stinging ocean air. The distant wash of waves decorated with the seagull calls.
Stare into the world for an hour :— you can see time. The sky, at once noon-bright blue and ghost-white and moonblack nullity. Scant, scattered clouds :— a sky-encompassing layer. Birds on the horizon :— shapes that bend and twist and spiral out. Motion :— image.
Sway with the wind, sway with the waves, sway with time.
The world seen at length, disappears :— you unlook. Stare beyond it. Drain past from present :— spot the future when it comes. It cannot hide.
You are perched low, shaded by tall rocks. You are clad gray-painted leather on slate crag. You breathe like the still wind. You have looked beyond, unlooked, draining from the sight of the world :— you are unseen.
The waves, the calls, the breeze in your auricles. The shadows racing, the shapes bending and twisting larger and larger. The future—
White! Gray! Feathered-fat! Lunge now, present-seen. Raptorial-snap — screech! — blood on your spines, cloth-wrapped tarsi scraping rockdirt. Heart pushing hemolymph, throats sucking breath.
Anteannae unrolled from tight spirals now grasp for essence on the air. Scent to match what was (fore)seen and now bleeds onto forelegs :— a hunt successful.
She had done it, Matae had done it ~ a righteous vengeance for craven theft. Wait till Akel heard of this! Just yesterday, a pitiful gull had snatched a fried fish he’d saved up two shades of bones for ~ Matae had bought him a replacement, as a good sister, but the humiliation was not so easily refunded.
How would Akel’s face brighten ~ mirror for her radiance ~ when he saw her gift! Hm, should she weave its bones into a necklace for him to parade this, their retribution upon vexsome gulls?
But for that, there needs to be bones :— an hour poised in hunter’s trance brings hunger. Pluck the feathers and strip the meat. The scent of blood lighting upon setae :— mandibles are already wet.
Raptorials open, tarsus of another foreleg shifting for a steadier grip. Then, pause.
No, Matae would eat anon, not now ~ why not roast it over a fire and share with Akel? Patience enough for this hunt was patience enough to return to town.
And then her hunt would be sung in the throats of her family today ~ then her hunt would reach its true conclusion.
Matae rose from her perch among the crags of the coast, legs springy with new allowance to move. A smile on her face, palps buzzing against her labrum-file murmured fragments of words, and excited breaths whistled through her abdomens’ throats. Her hunt would be sung in the throats of her family, but shouldn’t it start in her own?
Yes, Matae would sing of this ~ with all a nymph’s pride.