She is high, so extremely high, above the average kin. She is all feather and hollow bones; she is pureness untainted. (And they mock her, they laugh, they tease her -- it's all rather perplexing.)

There's an effortless disconnect between her and others -- all except her sister, that presence just behind her left shoulder that hovers whenever the jeers grow harsh -- that makes it much like a lone sun lost in a sea. Though she thinks the sun is much more beautiful than she. But there is one thing that connects her, one thing that makes her feel she belongs.

Kindness is ever present in her; it grows and flourishes and multiplies. It colors the world in pastels and fills her with warmth. And she does what comes naturally. She passes it on -- gives forward -- so that they, too, can have kindness. And she is content. (The voices quiet, confused, off-kilter -- she understands.)

Plains calm, she stands.
To the east dark clouds roll in; soot-stained kin crest the horizon.
To the west dark clouds roll in; mud-marbled wolves crest the horizon.
Hooves stampede; paws chase.
The sky thunders in staccato time with the herd—the pack—rushing towards her.
She should run, as they run; she should not stay.
Before her a rabbit; hunger.
Howls erupt; shouts.
The wolves lumber—loping paws, erect ears—as their lips curl; the kin canter—sharp hooves, narrowed eyes—as their teeth flash.
Growls; screams.
The thunder rattles the world and she—
Gold meets pink meets blue.
They—wolf, she, kin—are connected.
The realization causes lashing rain to bleed from the sky; the hunger interrupts.
The rabbit’s ears pin back; its eyes widen.
Wolf surges forward; kin spurs onward.
She rushes in, too.
Between them the rabbit is limp; three sets of teeth sink in.
A lightning strike flashes down, tears the halves of the world into two.
Wolf; kin.
She is both; they are her.
A lightning strike flashes down, marries the halves of the world into one.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.
[summary: A lone daughter in a sea of brothers who believes there are only ever two options: do or die. She earned her name when she fought a buck from another tribe -- he told her a fight was not necessary if she came willingly, she responded, "It is do or die, and I mean to fight."]

There was an oak tree. It was tall, taller than he, and green. He did not know how he knew it to be an oak but he did. And as he stood beneath it's canopy, he could see a sea of saplings.

Kin and creature, wind and Motherfather, had taken the acorns from this tree -- his tree -- and flown them free to become their own oak trees. The acorns were cracked and the seeds within were sprouting. And while around him life bloomed, his eyes were upward as the leaves from above fell, one by one.

In one leaf, he could see his birth. He saw the sac break and the sun above his oak tree brightened. In another, he saw now and he saw elsewhere a world of kin. He looked away. And as the leaves fell and the visions came, he felt himself grow old. And in the last leaf, as the oak withered from old age, he saw his -- their -- death.

Around him the sea of saplings was all grown but instead of leaving, he stayed. He turned, curling down near the once-lone oak's trunk, and he slept. Waiting. They would pass together he knew. And indeed they did, the oak and its heart.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

With the Totoma came Eagles.

As a foal he had seen one -- a sleek dark fledgling perched on a branch -- and from then on his attention was captured. He knew them to be hunters and vicious. From his mother he had learned that they were difficult to catch and tame; it had become lodged in his head that there was little more that one could dream of beyond befriending the wild predator. And as his sister-totoma grew from a runt into a strong aggressor, so, too, did he grow ever more thoughtful.

He was not a warrior and he turned away from suggestion of spilling blood or withstanding the wild charge of an opponent. Indeed he turned his face upward to the trees and the skies. He knew what he wanted to do; there was no struggle for time to reveal what it was he was meant for. And he put hoof to ground moving onward to receive his name.

Near a strong river teeming with fish there was a place that beckoned eagles. He had found them there as a foal and he returned often, bringing with him gifts of fish or rabbit to present the fierce birds. Of his family he had only told his mother of his secret place; the idea of someone harming the beasts in an ill attempt to tame them had kept him quiet. And though she did not quite understand his disinterest in taming one, she had kept his secret.

Unbeknownst to any, he had befriended one young eagle. It often landed on his curved horns or settled near his body if he rested on the ground. He knew that she had mated and laid eggs. And while her visits to him had shortened, his lengthened. The horrors of kin stealing an eagle's eggs haunted him. He had little reason to suspect a kin had wandered into the eagle breeding grounds with that exact notion planned. Except nightmares.

The morning after one such nightmare dawned warm and bright. He had ventured for the river's edge in search of a fish. One for himself and one for sure-to-be-hungry mother eagle. And as he returned, he saw it. An overlarge kimeti had approached the poorly placed nest. The tree had once been tall enough to reach the sky until a storm had cut it in half, sending it crashing sideways onto a stony ridge that cradled the large and heavy eagle nest the couple had constructed. He knew the mother had chosen the spot -- young and inexperienced she had taken the stony climb as a defense. And now it was clear that it was indeed a con, even as the buck stood on a slab lip and tried to sneak his nose into the nest.

Briefly he wished that his mother or sister were near. They were fierce and strong. But as the kimeti's mouth opened to snatch an egg -- he charged. His head dipped down and he rushed up the steep hill. He loomed over the wide-eyed kimeti, neck jutting over the exposed nest as the shrieks of eagles sounded above. If that was not terrifying enough, father and mother eagle came in a rush of wind -- their wings spread wide and their talons closed easily around the angered totoma's horns as they screamed and snapped their beaks.

The kimeti reeled back in horror, his footing lost as he toppled down to the harsh ground. As he looked up at the glowering trio, he heard the buck speak.

"Let it be known that none shall steal from Eagles-Landing," he growled. And though he meant an eagle's nest, the breeding grounds, the kimeti took it as his name and as ownership. Before promptly running off. To this day that kimeti cannot even look at an eagle without shaking.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

The world is dark with shadows and blanketed with quiet. A perfect place for the guilty, the nefarious, to hide. I am neither and take no effort to be silent in movement.

I am drawn to warmth, not light, and the pulse of hearts. It is love that I am after, for love is all that matters in the end. One day, I believe there will be only one. Now, there are many.

I do not woo with words. I do not dine to speak. I am the one who listens; I am touch. And I wear it well.

A nip of the ear, a tangle of tails, a keen ear to listen, but most of all friendship. That is how I loved and how they loved me. And I would take a small piece of each heart, they were my collection, my pride. I preened and admired them in lonely instances, a lone buck waiting for a soulmate, lit by the hearts given, taken, in my lifetime. Really, I was a sweet thief.

The memories are too full -- sharp cawing crows and dead decaying ravens and sweet acid-burning water -- of dissatisfaction. There is the incessant chatter of voices that rise and crash, swell and shatter, until he is a mass of warring limbs. He falls. A wind's touch would send him into insanity's arms to be coddled into a world of his own choosing. His mouth twitches up at the image.

He rises and decides to leave it behind. This life is over and a new one shall begin. He stands and shivers along his spine. The fur twitches and then leaves his body. He wonders if he is an ugly thing now. It matters not.

He yawns and his mouth seems to stretch until fissures crack along his suddenly dry skin. The edges flutter and he begins to pull out of his skin -- out of this life -- until he should be naught but bones. Instead he is as he was before, a little more vibrant and a wider smile on his face.

All the memories settle into the drying crinkled shell of an old life. The wind blows them away and he, reborn of his own decision, moves off into the swamp. It is time to lead a new life.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

Slender limbs still as the spider perches on the long stem. It sways and bows as the wind billows through. The flower is gone.

A butterfly flutters aimless. It floats on the breeze’s breath. (Close; closer.) Bright wings meet sticky web and the spider weeps.

Silk weaves the insect into a cocoon and the spider creeps forward. It is all putrid poison fangs, all suffocating clingy webs. Oh to be a lily; to be beautiful and kind.

But it is a spider—who wants to be a lily.

If only there could be a spiderlily.

(Oh, child, there is.)

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.