The task set by Anja for this fairy tale friday (July 11, 2014) was to let our muse* be eutony: the pleasantness of a word’s sound.
She would lie on her back where the tall grasses gave way to banks of the pond. Close to where the cattails grew. So she could listen to the words drift like cattail fluff on the shifting winds of autumn.
There was no meaning to her ears, only words turned into bird song and the rhythmic beating of butterfly wings. There was a hint of magic; a taste of the mysterious. Words to be enjoyed, to be listened to.
Each time she had to leave, she rolled into a sitting position, facing the cattails. She bowed her head, and whispered, “Thank you for allowing me to listen to your words. With your kind permission, I will be back to listen again.”
Her words fell gentle like a warm summer rain. The words were a mystery, hidden in the morning mists on the pond. But the sound was beautiful like the plants emerging in the spring, or the shimmer of fish caught in a water-fused sunbeam.
They always awaited her return so they could listen to the wondrous sound of her words.