Spring

Anxiety pulled Milla from the stubborn embrace of her long slumber. Her eyes were crusted and sensitive, squinting as she peered into the musty cavern where she still lay, curled and knotted into the fabric of her clan. Shadows of warmth surrounded her as steady currents of breath let her know that the others slept on. She disentangled herself from the tapestry of communal sleep, sliding herself out from arms, legs, heads, paws, claws careful not to disturb any piece of the whole. The cold was immediate and bracing trying to push her back into the folds of pumping blood and humid exhalations, but she persisted.

Her chest felt a tightening that squeezed without mercy as she lumbered toward the cave opening. She hesitated, savoring the last traces of hope as it lingered on her tongue. Once she moved through the craggy entrance she would pass from anticipation to certainty; a reality with no space for optimistic wishes. Her flank shivered tossing off the accumulation of grit, dust, and dandruff that had blanketed her during hibernation. She stepped forward.

She had dreamt of hunger and long days of draught, streams low and bare, salmon unable to migrate. She had dreamt of matted fur sucking against ribs with each labored breath. She had dreamt of young never given a chance to grow. She had dreamt of pain and loss and unbearable sadness.

Milla saw the tender stalk of green against blinding white that evaporated her fears. Another winter was finished and springtime had arrived with the color of prosperity. Her dreams had felt so real, layered with emotions of longing and sensations of rasping thirst. Yet here was proof of survival; a thin whisp of grass defiantly pressing through the crust of snow that remained. Tinkling drips of meltwater came to her next and the occasional chirp of an early bird. Her ears twitched, rushing to scoop up each beautiful sound announcing life had endured.

An inhalation of relief swelled her empty belly, and she knew it would be best to wake the others, but she wanted a moment longer with this euphoric release of apprehension. She moved with reverence as she set a paw into the wider world and bent each of her joints with intention until she was able to prostrate herself across the ground in front of the herald. In another day this lonesome pioneer would be insignificant. It would be trod on, or pulped into cud, its existence puffed out in moments. If it survived the ministrations of the wild it would become one of millions of duplicates swaying in a warm wind; inconsequential.

Today it was a symbol of hope in its solitude. Milla worshiped it.

She huffed a sigh to watch the blade bend and twist. A bird sounded its excitement in answer to the cry of another and she felt a sense of kinship with those that flitted among the trees. Soon there would be berries and plump fish, other creatures with their salty thick blood would populate the woods and provide nourishment for her and her clan.

A stirring behind her as the others woke. Berloth swayed by, glancing at the alter where she prayed and moved on with a puff of acknowledgement, but nothing more. Lad slunk next to her, cheek to cheek, and held out a tentative claw to touch the tip of the grass and watched it bow under even the most delicate weight. He hummed in his throat, then stood to follow the clan elder. Milla knew Lad would not put stock in such small wonders. He would need a whole meadow of springtime before he would be satisfied in their chances for survival.

Many of the others woke but did not venture out just yet. They would wait for Berloth to return, some sign of good fortune in his maw. Milla could tell them the glorious news, but hers were just words. Berloth was law.

She huffed again, delighting in the bend and sway of the newness in front of her. Her stomach twisted in protest, demanding a hunt, pleading for even the skinniest of prey. Milla delayed, keeping her eyes on the signal of rebirth.

Berloth and Lad left prints as they crunched through the vestiges of winter and the ancient instincts within Milla ached to follow. Not only to sate hunger, but also for the warmth of togetherness and the strength of numbers. She delayed, delighting in the slight aching pinch of solitude. The feeling would soon be soothed with the company of the others, and her small defiance was delicious in its brevity.

Birds continued to join their brethren in a chorus as the icy light of winter shifted into something warmer. The sun shone through the bare branches, kissing the snow and setting off sparks of light so bright Milla pressed a paw to her sensitive eyes.

In her self-inflicted blindness she listened. The birds were another sign, yes, but so was the tenor of the wind as it blew through clacking trees. The water no longer held hostage in icy prisons burbled with opportunities. The slightest whisper of the forest waking; pitter patters and rustles as even the smallest of the residents stirred.

Milla removed her paw and stood, careful to avoid the single blade of grass that embodied life. Perhaps later one of the others would crush it beneath the calloused pads of their feet. Their clumsiness not a sign of malice, but of an agnostic ignorance. More grass would grow, flowers would bloom, leaves would unfurl and sip at the unfiltered light as roots bathed in warm rains.

They would eat and breed and raise young. Their clan would swell in size and strength and continue to hold the territory passed down lines of generations. They would move through the forest on soft paws with glossy coats and bright eyes. The brush would be so thick it would pull on pelts until their passage wore trails to guide others in the hunt. They would live.