(no subject)
Morning comes too soon, the chill of night in the rocky desert fading as the moon creeps down and the sun comes up. Guriel rises carefull when the light does, breathing deep, facing the East and the sun and spreading the good wing to the full span, the right as far as it will go.
Such a long time since he's done this; such a long time since he's known it was morning based on anything but the harsh voice of his Master. Since he's seen the sun, the sky, heard the hills waking up around him.
His voice is quiet, but clear and melodic even after such long disuse.
Give ear to my words, O Lord,
Consider my meditation.
Give heed to the voice of my cry,
My King and my God,
For to You I will pray.
My voice You shall hear in the morning, O Lord;
In the morning I will direct it to you,
And I will look up . . .