oaks always were ziggy's favorite tree. in the skyline did they loom, dutifully gazing over the vast expanse of his castle, shedding crisp leaves upon the lumpy, bumpy suburban floor. perhaps he really shouldn't say suburban--it was a small community over which did he preside. there was a sure authority in his tensed posture; quiet ambition smoldered in his vivid green eyes. his kingdom was small, he seldom admitting, but he could peer over all of the village. from his precarious perch atop a spindly tree, he could gaze out the stretch of window. the first thing he saw was a taut oak waving its hello. and a hello he always wove back, for every king had consideration over his solders--rebellion brings nothing but pain! but even the mightiest, eldest, and wisest tree in his fair land could bring down such a noble reign! nor did they want to, ziggy presumed.
an iron fist and prestige was crucial to a king's rule. ziggy was a just king--he allowed his knight, and fellow roommate, puff have the remains of what he ate. in return, the elder, more taut muscled puff swore that he would flay the vermin scurrying about his palace. "the king will eat the finest rodent i can catch!" he said this oath with hint of snide, but ziggy ignored itx. "no, no, good man. i am well living off the banquet the housefolk put down every night." and so, he could scramble upon the rabbit's cell and overlook the back lands of his territory. a scraggly oak splayed a gnarly claw over the ground. a single leaf, furling crisply with death, wavered in a chilly breeze. for four seasons now, ziggy had perched in the ficus, watching playful white flakes embrace the ground, and the leaves which carpeted it below. for four seasons, he had smugly curled in a snug blanket, watching the world freeze around him. for four seasons, the world had passed him by.
the night before, his timid green eyes fluttered shut, casting him far away into a land of silver spilling over indigo grass and snapping trees towering above. the river seemed innocent enough--it all had, before his rogue imagination reeled, portraying once whispering trees with ones that rasped, and the river one of a grave crimson. he had ran; he had ran, as always, in no favored way, but just away from the cackling stream and spitting woodland. he was dimly aware that this was a dream, but the realism writhing in every inch of grass or water or maple (curse those maples) stole his breath. so, away he had ran, also faintly aware of the moon glowing cornflower blue--as well as the twin moon to its side, boring holes into ziggy's glossy pelt. "only one way can a true river flow; no peace will come to the fish who writhe down below--until the gasp of a raven's wing, can stir the voice of birds who sing." the ominous rasp shattered his fitful rest. by then, he had given up running, and was following the swift river aside him. they fell in step together, and for a moment, the aching presence of the forest neatly set a few fox-lengths away seems to ebb. but as the uninviting blue moons spoke--with not one gasping voice, but several uniting to scare the wits out of poor ziggy--the river swayed away. he broke into a run, fleetingly ripping apart from its churning step. the woods once more yearned to rake his hide. and, the stars, once more burned with a strange cold dance they had once maintained. strangely, ziggy threw his head back; feeling as if the stars held mysterious answers he itched to bask in. they had some kind of prevailing authority & wisdom. but, sometimes, a star is just a star.