(no subject)
A late mid-october night, dark and cold. The wind puffs, whispers and rumbles. It rustles the tree branches and sends dry leaves jumping and dancing. The darkness is inky and unfriendly. In the stirring grass a little mouse emerges timidly. It's eyes as inky as the dark, it whiskers twitchy with expectancy. It darts down and away along a path only it can see. Or maybe there isn't a path. Suddenly!!
It has fallen down a hole. Down and down it falls head over paw. Paw over head? Tail up, nose down. As it falls it vaguely wonders of white rabbits and unwed moles. Thin brown roots break, then gray wisps tickle. Till at last it lands on the gossamer hammock. There, in the non-light, is the weaver spinning the stolen moonlight into soft silk. At first the mouse is both afraid and fascinated, but is soon over come with sleepiness. Weft over warp. The layers of silk are warm and moonlight has the power to transform. When the silk is shed, she will fly away in search of a flame.
It has fallen down a hole. Down and down it falls head over paw. Paw over head? Tail up, nose down. As it falls it vaguely wonders of white rabbits and unwed moles. Thin brown roots break, then gray wisps tickle. Till at last it lands on the gossamer hammock. There, in the non-light, is the weaver spinning the stolen moonlight into soft silk. At first the mouse is both afraid and fascinated, but is soon over come with sleepiness. Weft over warp. The layers of silk are warm and moonlight has the power to transform. When the silk is shed, she will fly away in search of a flame.