When she was small, Persimmon loved to play a game. Whatever rustled in the tall grass, she'd bet herself what…
When she was small, Persimmon loved to play a game.
Whatever rustled in the tall grass, she'd bet herself what it was. A mouse? A bird?
Paws sweating, she'd peer through the blades.
If she was right, dinner was a little mouse!
She'd burst out with a mighty "Mrow!" and the little creature would squeak and drop whatever it was carrying, a nut, a berry, a stolen scrap, and flee for its life.
They'd tear through the meadow like the wind, her tail a happy, upright flag.
Win or lose, the night held a prize: fresh meat or a sweet, stolen persimmon.