Cricket Creek Bog nothing arrived

all welcome, tentatively dated before the scouting thread with mato? ah ambiguous timelines

delight cannot stand the incessant crickets chirping, the long drawn wails of cicadas. for a minute the boy thinks about slipping away, alone and eager to press on, but he's thirsty and the loam feels nice under his paws, he would only admit with great reluctance. the day felt nice, too, not the oppressive heat he was expecting, and it spoke of pleasant tidings and good omens. 

he didn't know what to do with that.

drinking his fill at a shallow pond the singing-sunlight considers his options. there's he could maybe they no; he's here, now. this is all he is, a dark brown wisp and piercing pale eyes, beautiful and maybe a little broken, but no one needs to know that but him. suddenly his loneliness feels all too oppressive and he strikes the surface of the water. he's leaned forward too far, unsteady, and delight slips into the water in a shocked jumble, betrayed by his own awkward limbs. now the crickets are laughing at him, surely, he knows it, righteous indignation plain on his face as he sits in the pool, dripping wet.