The wind moved around obstacles to reach the esk lazing upon a tree branch. Tintalle raised her brown head, appreciating the way it ruffled her short fur. Whatever could make their way to her was soft, but enough to let the leaves make their own music, and she loved that.
She was just beginning to return to her daydreams when there came a sound. No, a voice. A whisper. Tintalle strained to hear, but she couldn’t make out the words. Squirrels had already begun their slumber, and so had the birds — who was it trying to speak to her? She sniffed the air, trying to detect a presence that didn’t belong, but failed to do so. Her