Virdilak

I lay on the grass and pull on the blades that become ribbons of green, six feet long and flapping in the breeze. They twist around, forming words in some kind of strange language - I cannot read it, but the clouds can. They won't tell me what the grass wants me to know, though. A multicolored butterfly, wings spotted with green and blue, flits past my sight. I rise, and follow it; the grass waves goodbye, then shrinks again; it doesn't want the rabbits to know it can write. I find myself walking down the street after the butterfly, remarkably unsurprised at how deeply I seem to be sinking into the pavement. Each step is sluggish, like movin