Explore Esks species

The tiny esk sat perched on the tip of a branch of a fallen tree. Ground squirrels also dotted the length of the log, variously lounging or keeping a watchful eye on the sky. The esk’s eyes were also large, watchful, and pointed skyward, but its demeanor was different from that of the surrounding rodents. It stood on tiptoe, bushy tail held straight up, almost levitating as it considered the expanse above. Miniscule wasps flew in little circles around it or crawled on the red and green and gray galls dotting its leafy wings, speaking together in a single, soft, quick voice, a running monologue of observation. Quirk ventured, The other esk dwarfed Quirk in comparison, although they were objectively not very large. Muscles tensed as they shifted on hooflike feet. Vertu enjoyed observation, and

Bynka hadn’t expected to find the other esk on her stretch of the beach. It was not a particularly deserted place, with the occasional human walking up and down the sand, and little birds running in the surf, and the occasional dog bursting through the tall, waving grass to crash into the water in excitement, its owners calling out “Charlie! Charlie! Kom hit!” after it. But she had grown accustomed to the usual visitors, and this wasn’t one of them. She had been roaming along the coastline, the wind toying with her fur and flowers, pausing here and there to nose along the tideline in search for interesting rocks or little creatures in need of help. A small green crab seemed to wander aimlessly, and she nudged it back towards the waves, watched it toddle off into the foam. Bynka stood, continuing to watch the surf roll in and deposit its oceanic treasures--a tumbled stone, some bivalve’s shell--and then a particularly large swell climbed up the beach and unceremoniously dumped a pile

The creature with the long reaching fingers tossed the newt unceremoniously over its leafy shoulder. A brief moment of flight–shocking–and then it hit the surface of the bog pool with a light plop! The cool water was a blessing, at first. It had been trapped days inside the pitcher: days of stagnant water that itched and burned, that cooked in the sun. There was no purchase inside that leafy coffin, nothing to rest on to keep it out of the biting liquid, no way to clamber past the fine, downward-pointing hairs that lined the slippery sides of the trap. Bog water, alive with dirt and decay and mud and life, enveloped it now, muffled all sound. It settled to the bottom of the pool, too exhausted to move. And then the water began to bubble. It didn’t panic. Panic was not a common feeling for a newt, not like the lizards with their quick legs and quick hearts who could disappear into a pile of leaves in the blink of