Sun Mote Copse all mimsy were the borogoves

Weejay hovered over her little flower patch, much in the manner of a brooding hen. Her eyes were narrowed; what little light the dark night time sky afforded scarcely measured to the depth nor the darkness of her scowl, which pulled over her features in a heavy frown.

Yet possessive as she was of the last remaining pound of earth she could control and shape, Weejay's bristling settled as Sugar Glider's tail wagged and then slowed. Feeling guilty for her instinctive shortness, Weejay stepped back and nipped one small clover flower from the patch, offering it to the younger girl with a quietly apologetic smile.