In the heart of Central Illinois, where the prairie stretches wide under a sky heavy with dawn, a ring-necked pheasant named Kael stepped lightly through the tall grass. His iridescent feathers—emerald, ruby, and gold—caught the first light, shimmering like a secret only the morning knew. The bluestem and switchgrass towered over him, swaying in a breeze that carried the scent of damp earth and clover.
Kael moved with purpose, his long tail brushing the dew from the stems. He’d woken early, driven by a restlessness he couldn’t name. The prairie was alive with whispers—crickets winding down their night songs, a meadowlark’s trill in the distance. He paused, tilting his head to listen. Somewhere beyond the grass, a tractor hummed, a reminder of the world that pressed in on his wild home.
As he wove through the sea of green, Kael’s sharp eyes caught a flash of movement—a grasshopper, darting for cover. With a quick lunge, he snapped it up, its crunch satisfying. But food wasn’t his only aim today. There was a clearing ahead, a place where the grass parted to reveal a patchwork of wildflowers. He’d found it last spring, a stage for his kind’s proud displays, though now, in late summer, it felt more like a memory.
Reaching the clearing, Kael stopped. The flowers were fading, their petals curling, but the open space still felt sacred. He puffed his chest, let out a sharp, two-note crow that echoed over the prairie. No answer came, but he didn’t need one. This was his place, his moment. The tall grass rustled, hiding him from the world, and for now, that was enough.
Kael turned back into the maze of stems, his colors blending with the earth’s palette. The prairie held him close, and he kept walking, one careful step at a time.
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