Deep Woods Drabble
By David Hartley Mark
Mortimer Owl walked over the glen.
“Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce!” cried a motion of field-mice, tuxedo-colored, as they scampered by. The last one in line, barely two days old, thumbed her nose at the wily old hunting-bird as she trotted past him, and stuck out her mousy tongue, before ducking under a rotting, old moss-covered barrow….
--Which was the last thing she did, on this earth, in this life.