It was taking Whorl some time to find the perfect den. He’d traipsed across the mushy flats for hours, pausing every now and then to peer up at the cypress trees and mangroves that dominated the area. The cloak of twilight had slipped around the small canine’s shoulders without him realising it. Of course, realising that the hours had ticked by initially made no difference to his searching - Whorl was a man on a mission.
He squinted at the mangroves; not at the canopy as some might have, but at the roots that spread and undulated like hillsides near the saltwater shallows. Nothing was perfect yet. Whorl glanced up at the moon and tutted as if the glowing orb might pay heed to his displeasure.
It was no good searching in the dark and Whorl needed to rest. He made his way across the flats, heading for more solid ground, but something caught his eye: a spark of light which danced and darted. It ensnared his gaze, his zesty green eyes bright as his cheeks lifted into a grin. It didn’t take much for Whorl to follow.
The firefly, too, was just following, with Whorl trotting behind. The pinprick lights were gathering, multiplying; Whorl couldn’t help but feel this was somehow significant. He was rewarded, in the end, for that belief: up ahead, one tree stood slightly apart from the others. It was taller - older, Whorl guessed, than the mangroves growing either side. Its roots were thick as a large wolf’s forelimb.
It was also swarming with fireflies, its leaves and branches illuminated as if lightning had been arrested mid-strike. Whorl’s eyes widened.
“There she is,” Whorl cooed to no one - nobody with ears, anyway (he hoped). His tail wagged as he padded closer to the glimmering titan of flora. “You’ll be perfect, old gal.”
He squinted at the mangroves; not at the canopy as some might have, but at the roots that spread and undulated like hillsides near the saltwater shallows. Nothing was perfect yet. Whorl glanced up at the moon and tutted as if the glowing orb might pay heed to his displeasure.
It was no good searching in the dark and Whorl needed to rest. He made his way across the flats, heading for more solid ground, but something caught his eye: a spark of light which danced and darted. It ensnared his gaze, his zesty green eyes bright as his cheeks lifted into a grin. It didn’t take much for Whorl to follow.
The firefly, too, was just following, with Whorl trotting behind. The pinprick lights were gathering, multiplying; Whorl couldn’t help but feel this was somehow significant. He was rewarded, in the end, for that belief: up ahead, one tree stood slightly apart from the others. It was taller - older, Whorl guessed, than the mangroves growing either side. Its roots were thick as a large wolf’s forelimb.
It was also swarming with fireflies, its leaves and branches illuminated as if lightning had been arrested mid-strike. Whorl’s eyes widened.
“There she is,” Whorl cooed to no one - nobody with ears, anyway (he hoped). His tail wagged as he padded closer to the glimmering titan of flora. “You’ll be perfect, old gal.”