Song Bird

I like to watch as she undertakes her duties under the blanket of night. Without her, they can do nothing. Without her light, they are without guidance and chaos has free reign to terrorise them come night fall.

She was the first of all of us. The very beginning and likely, the end. Hers was the first face I beheld when my eyes opened in this world. Beside me, she seemed pale and weak. But I am nothing but her essence five times magnified.

When she mounts her ash coloured horse every evening, I feel something in me stir. It is almost like observing a dream. When she settles, she commands the winds to guide her steed. They rise to the challenge, propelling her forward on her nightly journey to bring light to places I have left bleak. It is a moment I live for. The moments between my retiring and her rising.

We work well together, our paths often crossing. On those days, I try to hurry away faster. To give way to her brilliance. When she is at her brightest, behold! A wonder. The sparkle of her gown. The luster of her crown. The sheen of the hair that trails behind her frame as she makes her way along her predetermined path. I never look away on those nights. When she sees me, she blushes. It is no surprise that that is when her light is at its strongest.

Every night, she leaves with a basket made from the finest strips of cloud. Whether full or empty, that basket of hers intrigues me. How she cares for it so. Peeking between its weaves are tiny pin pricks of light, each one singing a tiny tune. She gathers them every night when it's time for her to leave and scatters them from dusk to dawn on the dewy fields of the night lands. When I asked her what they were, her tinkling laughter rang out across the cosmos and she held out one from the folds of her pale shimmering robe. "It's a star, beloved," she explained. "It will help them see better."

On the days we go out together, I cannot help my shivers of excitement. Her beloved children complain about the heat- but what do I care? My Ezantiva is sparing a moment to walk with me across the sky. Our combined presence often leaves them in awe and terrified of looking us in the eye. So we do not do it often. Once every few years is fine.

The others call her Mother. I call her mine. For I, Khruske, am the sun whose heart is ruled by a pale moon.