Oystercatcher Tide Pools Sits on his Picassso

Too busily engrossed in the tune of the tides, the gentle sir almost missed her reply; a staccato bark quickly lost to the winds before he even had the change to twizzle his head back around. "Oh," he began as he felt a passing breeze rustle gently through his whiskers. The storm must have left, confirmed by the telltale scratches as her pads touched bare rock. "Live long and prosper, mysterious lady."

Like a dog with a lost bone, the fellows snout was tilted in the direction her scent began to fade in for a long while after her departure. And, though her company had been brief and full of puzzling queries, he found himself emitting the occasional soft whine as the sound of her footfalls faded back into the swell of the ocean.

Nevertheless, his simple mind would most likely turn her appearance into a folk tale as time went on; of how storm can come too and fro, sometimes even without warning at all.