(no subject)
Oats takes a deep breath of night air.
It's cold and pure and spring-fresh already-- and to make things even better, there is absolutely no one singing out here.
Hands in his pockets, he wanders along the edge of the forest, looking up at the moon.
He may be humming softly to himself.
But not singing.
It's cold and pure and spring-fresh already-- and to make things even better, there is absolutely no one singing out here.
Hands in his pockets, he wanders along the edge of the forest, looking up at the moon.
He may be humming softly to himself.
But not singing.