Stereochrome
The Little Blue Heron was singing - a throaty sort of wail, with no words of individual significance. Really, the entire song hadn't any significance, but the sun had risen and the day was warming, and that seemed as good a cause for song as any.
They'd stumbled upon a pond of water, barely ten heron-steps across - little more than a puddle really, trapped between some rocks. But the water here was clear, and they needed a bath, the two of them. The heron's stalky legs were caked over in mud, and the mangrove branch looked less like a branch and more like a...
Like a branch caked with mud.
Well - he'd had to drag it through the mud, after all. There was no way he could carry something like that - it was almost the size of himself, after all! Now Margay, that cat-thing, he would have had an easier time. Except he hadn't looked like the sort to wade through mud. Cat-things sat up in the trees and leaped of rocks and did all those other cat-things that cat-things do. Herons did the mud-wading. Which was all very fine by this one, because he didn't expect he'd like leaping off rocks very much.
He pulled the branch the rest of the way into the little puddle, and shook it about this way and that. Soon the clear water clouded over, mushrooms of brown sprouting up the the rippling surface.
They'd stumbled upon a pond of water, barely ten heron-steps across - little more than a puddle really, trapped between some rocks. But the water here was clear, and they needed a bath, the two of them. The heron's stalky legs were caked over in mud, and the mangrove branch looked less like a branch and more like a...
Like a branch caked with mud.
Well - he'd had to drag it through the mud, after all. There was no way he could carry something like that - it was almost the size of himself, after all! Now Margay, that cat-thing, he would have had an easier time. Except he hadn't looked like the sort to wade through mud. Cat-things sat up in the trees and leaped of rocks and did all those other cat-things that cat-things do. Herons did the mud-wading. Which was all very fine by this one, because he didn't expect he'd like leaping off rocks very much.
He pulled the branch the rest of the way into the little puddle, and shook it about this way and that. Soon the clear water clouded over, mushrooms of brown sprouting up the the rippling surface.
Esopha
What was that noise? Half-Prong stood on the edge of his usual grazing grounds, munching on some grass, cud and ferns quite contentedly, when a horrendous warbling interrupted his daily foraging. Half-Prong supposed it was singing of some sort, but whoever was singing obviously hadn't practiced in a long while. It sounded like a drowning cat. (Actually, Half-Prong supposed it could be a drowning cat, but that was beside the point.) The song was then accompanied by a few echoing splashes, more warbling, and then silence. Half-Prong twitched.
From his experience - and a good five years of experience he had - a curious deer was a dead deer. He didn't want to die, especially after finally receiving his name. Half-Prong. He took a little pride in it, tossing his head of antlers back and taking a moment to pose for any lady deer in the area. The posing didn't exactly work, however, due to the fact that he only had one antler. Half-Prong had sort of accidentally snapped the other off by running into a tree the other day. But then, he got his name, and Half-Prong sounded much better than Fifth-Fawn-of-Frolick. Saying the f's all lined up like that made his head hurt.
Half-Prong sort of pranced along through the undergrowth towards the source of the noise, sniffing delicately, his ears swiveling back and around, wide brown eyes peering through the brush...
...was that a heron?
From his experience - and a good five years of experience he had - a curious deer was a dead deer. He didn't want to die, especially after finally receiving his name. Half-Prong. He took a little pride in it, tossing his head of antlers back and taking a moment to pose for any lady deer in the area. The posing didn't exactly work, however, due to the fact that he only had one antler. Half-Prong had sort of accidentally snapped the other off by running into a tree the other day. But then, he got his name, and Half-Prong sounded much better than Fifth-Fawn-of-Frolick. Saying the f's all lined up like that made his head hurt.
Half-Prong sort of pranced along through the undergrowth towards the source of the noise, sniffing delicately, his ears swiveling back and around, wide brown eyes peering through the brush...
...was that a heron?
