Prompt for January 3: Four Lines of Prose about the Aviary


[Prompt from .]

A palate of colors, both mundane and exotic, was the only way she could describe it. Wings of the softest silk and velvet flittered around the cage as if essential dancers moving to the tune of an ancient folk song. The colors flew across her vision, making it so that she was forced to focus her sage eyes on a single form or else be unable to distinguish one from the many. This chaos wrapped in arrangement, while the most enchanting thing she had ever laid eyes one, caused her to ache with wanting to be a part of something greater than herself.


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