Perfect
The plateau, a mesa of warmth and woven shadow, beckoned to the benefactor and watcher alike, promising sights heretofore unseen in a mystical dance never beheld before, and in dreams never to be viewed again.
Forgoing the temptation, the benefactor sat briefly on the edge of the plateau, legs dangling, then slid over and slowly climbed down.
The oppressive stillness of the area surrounding the plateau was washed away in the clean, cool breeze spinning its way down from somewhere vastly higher—up where the light shone down in illuminating rays.
Across the soft, wavy plains, out into the vast corridors lined with great walls—sheer vertical cliffs decorated with ancient motifs of symbols and faces.
The corridor steepens, winding down to the valley below, where the path widens and splits into the open expanse, or through the arch and into the mystical confines where fire and ice meet and mix… ledges of fire occasionally roaring, roasting anything caught unawares.
The cavernous, frigid caves—filled and littered with scraps and scrapes, also of those who fell and were left.
The crisp, clean aroma wafts through this mystically dangerous place.
The benefactor waves a hand, and water pours from silvery branches.
In basins, the water is caught—enough for the day, perhaps two or three.
Reaching up, the smooth bark is ripped aside, revealing intricate wave upon wave of manna.
My excitement grows as the benefactor produces a small, smooth container, which rattles like rocks or gems.
My stomach growls of its own accord. I look up once more, grateful for my benefactor and the kibbles that fill my bowl. I purr my fleeting gratitude.