Cricket Creek Bog Itsy Went Up The Water Spout

The little flitterbug was quite a bold birdlet, needing no further invitation to swoop down and start decapitating some worms. Grimeye flicked an ear down at the little beast in some bemusement; it took so little to make the little birdbrain so ecstatic. Well at least it had stopped calling her wolf.

The spectacle of bird versus worm caught her attention for a few moments despite herself, as she watched the tug-o-war and had to wonder if when that worm pulled loose it was going to tear right in half or possibly send the little bird tumbling end over end from the backlash. Grimeye was downright grateful not to be obligated to go to such work for such a tiny and disgusting mouthful—although, fine, it was probably a lot more filling to the tiny stomach of a bird. Still—ew. Grimeye raised her eyes to the tree-studded horizon again and scanned over the wetland with her black nose fitfully twitching. Nothing much new to see out there; neither hide nor hair of any of her wayward relatives or of any prey. I don't suppose you'd know where to find anything better to eat than worms and crickets, she grumbled moodily, half to the little bird and half to herself. As she glanced down at the twittering ball of feathers near her feet she had to admit the thought crossed her mind that an "Itsy" might make for a better meal than worms, at least, if that was all she was going to encounter in this useless mess of a swamp... but the flittering little thing looked to be more feather than substance, truly, and hardly worth the effort to even try to catch. She wasn't nearly that hungry. Yet. Grimeye gave her head a tiny, unconscious shake and shifted from one sore hip to the other. At least the soggy ground here helped to cushion her poor ass a little better than the unforgiving mountain rocks of a few days ago. But she really didn't think much of her nieces' choice of real estate, still.