A Tale of Always

The bees made honey that morning, but that was not unusual, for that was what they always did.  The rabbits ate their greens and dug new paths to their warrens, as they always did.  The birds gathered worms and chirped, and this too was according to the usual state of things.
            And then there was Ellis.
            Ellis was a wanderer.  And she never did anything always; there was, she thought, far too much time for always.
            Each morning was something new and different.  There were new things to eat (and even when there wasn’t, there were new ways to eat them), new paths to take, and time to walk or run or scratch or holler or stare at the changing colors of the sky.  To say hello to old friends and make new ones—all this was difference.  For to Ellis, there was far too much time for always.
Each afternoon, Ellis saw a different warmth and a different life.  Sometimes there were naps.  Sometimes there was work.  Sometimes the rain poured and turned one’s bed into mud.  Other times snow was cause for helping a neighbor bee or rabbit clear a space for each to go about their day.  And Ellis knew that each one could never be the same as the afternoon before—there was so much time… far too much for always.
So, too, each evening ran its course in waves without patterns.  There were times to think, and times to dwell, and times to weep, and times to leap with joy.  There were fires and sweet things and hot drinks and tales—and even this last could have, within its very telling, an infinite variety.  And, of course, there were dreams—and these told the tale of difference all the more, for not one was the same as any other.  Thus, Ellis thought all the more that there was far too much time for always.
Ellis could have chosen differently.  She could have done as the bees did, or as the rabbits.  She could have looked at all the mornings and afternoons and evenings and saw them all the same. 
She didn’t, though, and that was her only always.

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