The Language of the Birds – a story

Songbird...
Songbird… what secrets do you keep?

The völva had put on the warm woolen socks her aunt had knitted her and, in return, she’d bought her a Dalarhorse as a token of gratitude. Walking out the door, she sent her aunt a thankful thought for keeping her feet warm this winter.
As she had walked down the narrow path into the forest, looking for a place to sit and rest, a little tree growing at the edge of a rock had called to her. She sat down across from it, admiring it’s beauty, letting her thoughts slip away like leaves in a stream.

There was a beauty that emanated from within everything. Some places it was more obvious than others. The little fairy tree was a good example. If one paid close enough attention one could see it; light as form.

As she sat there time dispersed to lay open the fields of the soul. Wind moved across the planes, caressed the straws, snug around the trunks of the trees, separated leaves from branches. Branches from trees, trees from earth. Yet, what was Death to some, was Life to others. It was the nature of winter.

Just then she felt a presence at the edge of her consciousness. A quick movement of air. Another one and it was beside her. On a small branch to her right. She turned to look and this time the light took the form of a little bird. The masters of the air, the riders of the wind.

The bird, small, white, black and grey sat there and observed at her.
As she asked it for it’s name, the one mankind had given it, it answered:Wagtail.

Then it flew off into eternity leaving the völva with a smile that embraced her lips and heart.

 

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