Douglas lay on his sleep platform,
eyes barely open, watching the play of the rising sunlight through the broad
blue leaves. He heard rustling in the canopy around him, then two soft thunks.
Doppler and Gringo were always the first to check for any remaining night
crabs, tossing rocks they carried up into the trees the night before.
With a sigh, Douglas rolled over
and fell off the platform. As the vine hammock swung him gently underneath, he
remembered how unnerving it had once felt to sleep in the trees, hearing the
clicking movement of the crabs far below. It was jokester Brownie who
introduced him to the morning bed roll. Dougles had almost fallen out of the
tree, trying to scramble over to Brownie’s platform and catch him. Only to find
Brownie laughing, swinging underneath.
Douglas had cried when Brownie
died. The boola had been mystified by the water coming from his eyes, and more
mystified by his horror when they unceremoniously rolled Brownie out of the
tree into the path of the night crabs. Douglas had lain awake that whole night,
listening. There was nothing left in the morning.
Dogs in house
|
Houdini
|
Music
|
Sarah McLachlins’ “Prayer of St. Francis”
|
Time writing
|
~40 minutes
|
December word
count
|
7,533
|
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