Wheeling Gull Isle pisatuntema

he always came home.

even when this had not yet been home, he had returned to the island. now that it was littered with scents of those he called his family, there was a grand comfort in a return. especially when he found the scent of mo heavy among the trees.

the boy was growing. aging. soon he would not be much of a boy. more of a young man.

he knew not that he interrupted a possible hunt, or deep thoughts.

a blessed day to see your face, mo. his curly furred tail offered a brief sway. i have something i wish to share.