Heron Lake Plateau the heart

The ticklish feeling of having her fur slicked against the grain — collateral damage for sleeping so closely to Phoebe — was a source of irritation for the sleeping fledgling, but aside from a faint tremor and a disgruntled murmur she didn’t stir.

That is, until the squirming of her siblings and her father’s well-meaning nuzzle popped the fragile bubble of slumber and had her bobbling into full wakefulness. Normally Kite would have woken up at the mere touch of Quixote’s tongue — she was incredibly sensitive to tactile stimuli — but he’d been given a freebie of sorts.

Now, though? All bets were off.

The silver-cloaked thirdborn peeped her own litany of protests, wibbling and wobbling wildly as she attempted to worm her way toward her father. If she was awake, she wanted to be fed! It didn’t matter that Quixote lacked the proper equipment; gumming on his toes was good enough for her. It passed the time, and half the time she wasn’t on target with actual nursing, anyway. She quaked and quivered, bumping her muzzle around blindly — but she found Phoebe instead.

Squeaking fitfully, she pressed her head against her sibling with a tiny sigh.