Pitter's Yellow Grass

Pitter pattered from one bent, yellow long-grass to the next, his hands and feet feeling every little bump and dip in the dirt on his way. His tail left a near imperceptible trail; likely only his own kind could see it. But it wasn’t the trail he was worried about.

Tucked away, he looked through the grass to the clear sky above him. The pink- and red-gut clouds were slipping away from the sun, and it was dying as it descended into its Twilight grave. Pitter had not meant to stay out so late; he had miscalculated how long it would take him to get home. He rubbed his little hands together and hoped it would not cost him his life.

He surveyed the field ahead of him; it was another thousand paces to his awaiting nest. Up ahead, there was a long patch of thin grass. It was thinner than he’d like but going around it would take too long. The beast might not yet be awake. He lowered his body even more and tried to blend in with the ground. Taking a deep breath, he flung himself into the thin grass and raced beneath the scattered coverage. A twig was in his path, but he leapt over it, hands and feet in the air like a flying creature. He landed soft, but he left deep footprints in the dirt. He would show his son tomorrow if he lived.

He had traveled the field this morning, and to the left he finally smelled his own scent-trail. He veered that direction, and once safely on his own trail he picked up speed. He would be able to smell his path, now that his eyesight was getting worse in the near-dark. He thought back to what debris was in the way that morning and could only recall a large log he had climbed through, close to his nest. Otherwise, the path was clear.

He was halfway though the sparse grass field before his claws locked in the dirt and his muscles spasmed from such an immediate halt. He tried not to breath heavy as the small gray hairs on the back of his spine stiffened. He hadn’t seen it, but he had heard it; the soft beat of its giant, Moon-consuming wings.

He couldn’t risk moving his head to look up, so instead he waited for new information to come to him. The gentle breeze was pushing against his face, so if and when he smelled the beast he knew it would be from in front. And if the beast was in front of him, it must have passed him; and if it had passed him, it must not have seen him.

The seconds dragged on, punctured only by the steady beats of the beast’s wings somewhere above. It must be circling. Should he run? Could he even risk tensing up in preparation for the run? The slightest move could signal his death.

Before he could decide, a scent hit him, and his body trembled in uncontrolled relief. The bird had passed him, and he could finally breath. Even Pitter hadn’t known how much relief he would feel. As a youngin’ he had never been so fearful in the face of near death. But upon the birth of his son, he had become new, more cautious man.

He waited one second longer before lifting his head to inspect the sky. He could see the shadow crossing the air like a specter. The wide circles were slowly getting farther and farther away, and Pitter felt a weak ache for the ability of flight. To be a beast would to be free. But he was a ground mouse, and he found contentment here.

He scurried forward, and his little hands found their way through the field and fallen log, and into his nesting grounds. There were dry pieces of yellow grass covering and protecting his home, all of which he had collected. The earth beneath his feet was familiar and packed down, just as he had constructed. His little mouse heart slowed to a more survivable level, and he descended into his best dreams and worst fears—he could never lose his race against the beast, ever. For their sake.