oh to lay on a field of flowers on a winter morning.

the snow falling on your wings, on your back, on your snout. but you're not cold, you're never cold, because your fire inside is keeping you and the flowers warm, and the cold ice melts under your scales and falls on the impossibly green grass.

you don't know for how long you've been laying there; enough for the sun to cool down and for the days to get shorter and shorter; enough for the moss to grow on your scales and for your tail to get buried in a thin layer of soil and roots.

time doesn't affect you much, though. the flowers are there and seem almost magical, eternally young and colorful. the trees whisper from afar, carrying stories from places long gone.

you're here, you're happy, and nothing else matters.

you're laying on a field of flowers on a winter evening.