The morning sun stirs, and so too does she.
Rising, she leans into the breeze, filling her lungs with the cool morning air as it races across the sea and sand alike. She has rested well enough atop her bed of wildflowers and grass, kept safely away beneath a rocky ledge. Now, she wakes and greets the sun with a pleasant grin, small and sweet and filled with wonder.
For the fourth day now, she wakes and is free.
No others have followed her, and no others will, she begins to think. But she does not think on it long, lest the thoughts begin to cluster like fleas in the folds of her mind, biting and gnawing and itching all the same. She lets the thoughts go in the breeze, sighing as she does so.
In the golden light of the morning, she finds her way to the shore once more, flexing her toes in the sand and stretching her limbs. Ankle-deep water, slow and cool, washes over the gnarled, angry skin, puckered and pink with healing. It has been four days since she has chewed them bloody and raw, but she does not think about them either. They, after all, are the itch, and the thoughts are the fleas.
Whoever it is that watches her goes unnoticed. She is, as they say, in her own world in those moments, singing and splashing to greet the morning.
Rising, she leans into the breeze, filling her lungs with the cool morning air as it races across the sea and sand alike. She has rested well enough atop her bed of wildflowers and grass, kept safely away beneath a rocky ledge. Now, she wakes and greets the sun with a pleasant grin, small and sweet and filled with wonder.
For the fourth day now, she wakes and is free.
No others have followed her, and no others will, she begins to think. But she does not think on it long, lest the thoughts begin to cluster like fleas in the folds of her mind, biting and gnawing and itching all the same. She lets the thoughts go in the breeze, sighing as she does so.
In the golden light of the morning, she finds her way to the shore once more, flexing her toes in the sand and stretching her limbs. Ankle-deep water, slow and cool, washes over the gnarled, angry skin, puckered and pink with healing. It has been four days since she has chewed them bloody and raw, but she does not think about them either. They, after all, are the itch, and the thoughts are the fleas.
One little seashell, lying in the sun...She sings quietly, dragging her paws through the water in wide arcs and watching as the sand moves below the surface.
Swish went the big wave,she sings as her paws lifts above the water, hanging for a moment before she brings it down with a splash and a wicked laugh,
and then there were none!
Whoever it is that watches her goes unnoticed. She is, as they say, in her own world in those moments, singing and splashing to greet the morning.