The trees ... sway, sway ...

... leaning this way.

And over there. Birds. Over there. Under clouds. In branches.

Wavy, hazy, warm.

"Yellow," Field whispered, shaking his head. "Yell ... oh ... warbler. Ler." A swallow. A closing of his eyes. Bare, on his back ... way out in the woods. With an empty canteen (on its side, with the lid a few feet away) on the damp soil. In the grass (and decomposed leaves).

Field was drunk.

"Hmm ... huh," he went. Sucking air. And exhaling. And swallowing. His clothes (his shorts and socks) beneath him, laid out ... like how a towel would be laid out. Laying on them instead of in the wet, warm grass. Clothes all muddy. Foot-paws all muddy. Head lolling this way and ... that way, and ...

... rustle-rustle.

The mouse's ears swivelled. Rustle ... rustle? Whatever ... mm ...

The sky was patchy. Some clouds. And some blue. And the sun would go behind the clouds, and the breeze would feel cool in his fur. And then it would peek out again, and ... he would feel a wave of warmth lap over him. Over his belly. Over his chest.

And he would sigh and look to the tree-tops. And they were waving at him! Sway, sway ...

... and it was so warm, and ...

... mm. Hello, tree-tops! Hello.

Yellow warbler. He'd seen one ... walking out here. Yellow warbler. Why didn't they ever come to the house? Why did they stay in the woods?

Were they afraid of him?

Other birds. They sang, and they sounded, and ... redbird. Redbird, and ... thrasher, and ... all hiding away. All in the thick, green growths. All in the earliness of May. The first day of May.

Halfway through the day.

The day was already over. The (golden) day was dying. It died as soon as you woke.

The mouse's eyes half-open. Tail lazy in the grass, half-pinned beneath him. Snaky, like a rope. Like a line. Whiskers twitching weakly. Head swimming. And he tried to sit up, and ...

" ... whoa," he whispered, huffing. And falling back ... to his backside. No getting up. No ... getting up. Alright.

A clipboard with four pieces of loose-leaf notebook paper ... and a purple pen. Right beside him. Scribbled on.

Write ... write. More stories. More. More ...

He hadn't brought his camera. Had left it on the state flag (folded on top of the old RCA).

Pictures. More pictures.

More.

Never enough.

Fill your holes. Create. Control. It's ...

... never good enough. Damn mouse. Damn ... " ... m-mouse," he stammered. Swallowing. Sighing. Giggling a bit. "Mm ... " Oh, but he felt loose. Oh, but he felt ... floored. Oh, but the pressure (for once) melting away. Or was it ... ? Did it ever?

The expectations.

The demands.

The assumptions.

He couldn't hear them. He could only hear the breeze. And the leaves in the trees. And the birds on the branches next to the leaves in the tress. And the ...

... giggles. His own giggles.

"S-stop it," he told himself. Breathing deeply through twitching nose. "Mm ... " One would've thought he would've had more energy than this. He'd mixed the sweet and sour alcohol with soda. One would've thought ...

I drank too much ...

Normally, he didn't drink ...

" ... so much." A quiet wince. It hurt so much. He shook his head. Trying to jar loose the pains and traumas, the daggers of his past ... the ones his art had distracted him from. His stories, his pictures, his worlds ... self-made wallpaper to ... cover the horrors on his walls. Bury them, bury them ...

... more, more, more!

They won't let me rest.

Why won't they let me rest?

Trees. Birds. Breeze. Air. Cool. Warm. Leaves. Grass. Dirt. Creek. Sun. Fur.

Feeling.

Feel, Field. Feel ...

"Mm ... that ... feel, Field ... " Tongue-twister, is what that was.

What did everyone want from him? Who did ... who did they think he was? No one knew. No one ... could know.

He wasn't from their world. They could never know. Never know ...

... the lightning hitting above your bed. Thunder ringing in your head. The gravel trails. The mulberries. The snapping turtles. The sycamores. The red bi-plane. The green twine. The cottonwoods snows. The thistle and the clover. The round bales.

Oh, the cottonwood snows! Three weeks hence!

How longed for them ... the snows. The day. Memorial Day.

500 miles. 200 laps.

To listen to it on a radio ... beneath the cottonwood trees. Snowed on.

Details. Details! They could never know.

It was like ... every-fur's curtains were flying. But none of them were at home!

Field could only hope for them. (Safety from fears and darkness.)

As he hoped for himself. (Was he feeling better than before?)

It was so difficult to try and shine yourself into rooms ... when no one saw. When no one cared. When the responses were dulled.

Why was he so different? Why didn't they understand where he'd come from? Who he was? Why weren't they familiar with those details?

And he couldn't ... spell them out. He couldn't ... do it. Oh, he tried.

No, he was ...

... from here. Here. Here. A breath. Here!

Oh, laughing fur, what have you won? Do not tell me, Field would growl, what can be done ... cannot be done! I may be shy, but I am sharp. Sharper than you know ... my present flowers are fertilized with years of decomposing pain. Life is not a game! If you still wanna reach me, you know where to find me ...

Lying in the woods of Indiana.

Where the sun looks at you ... right in the eye, blinding you of sight, telling you, "Think of what you say."

Oh, but Field, said the quiet wind ... you are your OWN stress! It's all YOUR fault. Wake up, wake up ...

... to the love.

Oh, but he heard it ... in her voice! Oh, love!

His someone. His absent mate.

Someone sweetly willing.

His bat ...

Where was she? Work ... today, she was at work, and ... he wasn't. His day off, and ... without her. And he hadn't known what to do. And here he was. In the life-smelling woods. On his back. Tipsy. Bare. Staring at the clouds as they drifted by (like islands). Like nothing below (and nothing above).

He had her.

She was all he had. No family. No friends.

Just her. And ...

... that was enough. But ... when she wasn't here, he couldn't live with himself. When he was alone.

He was drinking because he was alone.

Because he was burned out on art.

And without her, and without art ...

... it was just him and God.

And he couldn't face God ... not directly. Drink, drink ...

... no more left. The canteen was empty.

He didn't know what to say to Him. What am I supposed to say ...

He already knows. He already ...

... knows.

Restless heart.

"Idle," Field whispered. He felt dizzy, and he turned his head ... so that his cheek drank of the sun. Legs, knees bent ... foot-paws on the ground. Sun on his thighs. On his fur. Warm, warm.

Warmer.

"Rest ... list," he stuttered, "hart ... idle. I ... dull," he slurred. A heavy blanket of loose warmth ... massaging his fur. Keeping him from moving. Keeping him down.

The clouds moved over the sun again. For a moment. And then out of the way (again). And then ... more cover. Dodging.

The sun was playing dodge-ball with clouds!

The mouse giggle-squeaked ... hysterically. Oh, that was hysterical! The ... the clouds would never win! Giggle-squeak. Didn't they know ...

... stupid clouds!

The sun always won. It always came back.

He could be doing more. The mouse ... I could be doing more. For Him. For her. For everyone. More.

You're right. It IS me. I'm just doing something wrong. So ...

No time to rest.

No time to sleep.

No time to ... slow down.

Only so much time. Only so much time.

No time to ...

... hurts. Oh, it hurt.

His eyes watered. Darted. Half-open. And he tried to sit up again, but ... oh, could not. Fell flat on his back, huffing. Oh ... wow ... he felt warm. A swallow. That beautiful sea up there. That sky. Why did it taunt him like that?

Why did it look down on him so?

Why did it ... DO that?

Justify your existence, Field. You can't do it.

Shut up!

Tick-tick ... tick-tick ... time. Time. You're losing your rhyme. You never had any reason to begin with. All you have left is the rhyme. And you're losing that, too.

The mouse's weak, weary eyes darted ... yellow warbler. Oh, yellow warbler, where are you?

Forget warblers! Think of ...

... his mate.

Adelaide.

She could walk over to anyone. Talk about anything. Rain, porches ... car trips to the sea. She could do anything. She had confidence. She had grace. She made furs glow, and she made them better, and ...

... you're not doing enough. More, more. Why can't you be like her?

Why do you have to be like yourself? How awful ... change yourself, Field. Erase yourself. Be something else ...

... while you can.

While you're able.

You'll be dead soon.

You're gonna die young of a disease you don't detect in time, his mind promised ...

All the light and color ...

... gone.

It's over, Field. This is it. You've burned out. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually ...

... your wick is finally at its end.

This time. This is it.

A rustle-rustle, and ...

"It's not," was the reply, "you know."

Field squinted ... too tipsy to squeak in surprise (as he normally would've done).

The bat was there. Pink. Concerned. Her.

"W-what ... "

"Too many furs at work. Said I could go home ... "

Field's mind reeled.

"I followed your scent. Followed your thoughts," she said. The land was damp. The mouse had left tracks. And his whirling mind was never hard to find. He gave off strong signals. Stronger than anybody she knew.

Field still didn't understand. Mind hazy. He was dreaming her ... maybe ...

But Adelaide crouched down beside him ... putting a paw on his chest. "If you were gonna drink," she whispered, "you should've stayed in the house." On her knees now. Leaning over him. "I don't want you out in the woods ... like this," she said. "I'm serious." Her eyes locked to his.

"I'm ... f-fine ... "

"I just don't want you to get hurt."

A shake of the head. A whisker-twitch. A pained, "Already ... two ... l-late."

"Field," was her light-than-air response. Was her peering gaze. Was her. "Field."

"What," he said, swallowing. "I didn't ... hear ... you," he said. "You snuck ... on me."

"Well, you're drunk." She put a paw to his cheek. And to his forehead. "Darling," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry ... "

"It's alright." She leaned back. "Can you sit up?"

A weak shake of the head. Eyes watering. "Not y-yet ... I'm sorry ... "

"It's alright," she insisted, squeezing one of his paws.

But the mouse was shaking his head, crying quietly. Shaking his head.

But she could read his mind. And his worries, she could find, and ... pop them. Like blisters. Pop them. Said, "You're not too different ... for me to love. You're not too weak. You're not lazy. You're not bad. Alright? You give me SO much ... you're gentility. Your poetry. Your innocence. Your eagerness. Field ... "

"I'm not ... right."

"I don't even know what that means, Field," was her balanced reply. "But that's absurd. Alright?"

"A b-bird?"

"No. No ... absurd," she repeated patiently.

"Warbler."

"What?" She tilted her head. Angular, swept-back ears ... picking up all the woodland sounds. Her pure, pink fur dappled with the same light that dappled him. That swam on him.

"I s-saw ... yellow warble."

"You saw a yellow warbler?"

A quiet nod. "It flew away ... "

"It'll come back," she assured.

He sniffled. Eyes on hers. Mind asking ... how do you know?

And Adelaide replying, verbally, "Because birds are drawn to hope. Things with hope ... they float. Things without hope," she whispered, "sink. Are heavy like stones. It will be drawn," she assured, "to your hope."

A sniffle. Eyes watering again. "I'm ... if I'm ... hope. How come I'm this?"

"Like this?" she supplied.

A sniffle.

"You just hit the wall, Field. We all hit the wall. It's a result of getting so caught up in the day-to-day, in what we do, what we say, what others think ... you tried to be more than a fur-and-blood mouse. You tried to be a machine. Tried to do everything. Please everyone. Doesn't work," she explained, "like that."

His whiskers weakly twitched.

She ran her paws through his chest-fur. Fingers parting his soft, honey-tan fur. Leaning down. Nose hovering above him. The earthy scent of mouse.

"Pin ... pin my tail t'the ground."

"If I did that ... you'd be scurrying in place."

"But I wouldn't be ... into walls. Into ... tripping over. Keep," he asked, "me still."

"I try, darling."

"I'm sorry ... "

"No ... no, I try, and I ... won't stop. Alright? Stop apologizing."

"I'm sorry ... "

"Field," she stressed.

He sniffled, blinked, looking to her ... ears rumbling at the sharpness of her tone. Ears so sensitive to every sound. Head swimming. Still. Swimming.

"Just don't hold your past," she said, "against yourself."

"Why?"

"Cause it's not now. It's ... forgiven. Repented from. You turned from it ... you accepted Him."

"But I ... I can't forgive MYSELF. Why? Why ... "

"Because the Devil would love nothing more ... than for you to wallow in self-pity, darling. To believe that ... you're beyond help. To believe that there is no Savior. No salvation. No Truth. Because ... the Devil loves doubt. Doubt breeds fear, breeds ... loss of hope. And hopeless furs ... lose their souls to the wind. Because they have no roots." The bat's pink eyes bored into his blue-greys. "But I know you have roots. I know how deep they run. I know how pure they are. And they're tangled with mine, and ... I'm not letting you topple over, mousey. Got it?"

A swallow. His throat hurting a bit. A quiet nod. "I ... Adelaide ... "

"What?" was her whisper. Still clothed (in a tank top and shorts). On all fours over him. "What?"

"I ... all these things in my head. These ideas ... these ... w-worlds," he stammered, still tipsy enough to be stumbling over his words. "They're ... small planes. Need them to ... get out. To fly! I ... launch one, and ... five more. I can't keep up. It burns. The ... fever."

"Darling, even ... the Lord rested. After creating the world, He rested. You gotta rest, too. You gotta sit and ... breathe. And be. And ... look at what you've made. Be proud of it. And ... rest, Field. Rest."

"I ... stuck at a scurry."

"Which is why," she repeated, smiling, "I'm gonna nail your tail to the ground."

"It's ... it'll hurt."

A smile. "I hope you know I'm not being literal ... about that. Anyway, it was your idea." A caress. "All the same, though ... yeah, it might hurt. You might have to LEARN ... how to rest. But I can teach you. I can be a good teacher," she said (knowingly). "And I know you're a good listener."

A quiet nod. A sniffle. "I'm sorry ... I ... r-repent. I wanna ... be better for you. I'm sorry ... "

A quiet sigh. And a patient smile. "You're forgiven," she said simply, paw over his heart. And a breezy, May Day breath. It was May Day. "And I love you, Field ... okay?" was her whisper.

"I loves you ... two ... "

She giggled a bit ... at his bumbling tongue. Putting a paw on his forehead. Leaning back to a straddle of his bare waist.

A momentary quiet.

Oh, Field, oh ... Field, the redbirds seemed to call ... you've got a thousand things in your head, and ... suddenly, all you can think about is her? We're tempted to be jealous!

"What's this?" Adelaide whispered, paw reaching for the near-forgotten clipboard (and pieces of paper ... and purple pen).

"I'm ... tried writing," Field offered, taking a shaky breath, "poem. For you. I ... had to stop," he said. "Got two ... dizzied." A pause. "Sorry ... spelling's not good. Sorry ... "

"It's okay, baby," she whispered. One arm and paw on his chest. The other retracting, holding the clipboard closer, so she could read the poem. The scrawled, scribbled poem ...

Field was quiet as she read it.

"Oh ... " She breathed. Smiled. "That's sweet ... Field. Really." And a paw squeezed his. And her eyes glinted with sudden playfulness, and she leaned down, whispering into his ear, saying, "But, uh ... for future reference," she told him ...

"Mm?"

"‘Pussy's' spelled with ... a ‘y' ... not two ‘e's' ... "

A flush. "I ... I was ... "

" ... drunk. Mm." A kiss to his cheek. And she sat back up. "It's very romantic," she assured, setting the clipboard down. "Now," she said, breathing deep, "we're going back to the house. And you're gonna take a nap."

"Adelaide ... "

"Nap," she said. "Rest. I'll lay with you. Alright?"

"You won't fly away?" was his weak, wispy whisper.

"Have I flown away yet?" she asked. Full of sincerity.

A small shake of the head.

"Then I'm not about to start." She smiled. Reassuring him. Squeezing his paw (once more). And she stood, and ... extended her paw.

The mouse stood.

"Better get dressed," she reminded, showing her teeth. Giggling.

"Oh ... "

"Any reason," she asked, as the mouse fumbled into his shorts and shoes (he hadn't been wearing a shirt when he'd come out here) ... " ... any reason why you were in the fur?"

A flush. "I wanted to feel the sun."

A smile. "Well, I'm sure," she said, winking, "that it appreciated feeling you, too."

A giggle-squeak, and ... shorts, shoes on, he bent down to get his clipboard. And the empty canteen (which had held the alcohol). And a bit wobbly on his legs, he looked around.

She extended her paw.

He took it. And sighed with ... a swelling relief. A returning joy.

And the yellow warblers, as the mouse left, spiraled to the ground, chirping, "May-day! May-day! Happy mouse! Happy mouse!" For there was no telling the things a happy mouse (bolstered by love and faith ... and on his way toward rest) could do. Once he woke ... what would he do?

One was sorrow. But two was joy.

Oh, two was stronger. Two was the sun. Two was five hundred flowers. Was the rooftop. Was the warm wind. Was everything.

Two meant everything.

And the two of them ... left the woods. Going for the house.

Bat plus mouse equaled ... everything was going to be alright.