Dawnlark Plains XLVII

Saturday’s Sunset mimicked Father. She crouched beside him slung low in a stalking posture.

She became statuesque. Silent. Every predatory play instinct became contained, honed for a real hunt. Her nostrils flared at the wetland scent, gaze attuned to the slow movement of the long-legged birds.

Then, slowly, she began to creep forward. Closer. Closer!

Steady, the spirit willed.

Each paw step was precise. Good genetics expressed their hunting phenotype.

Then, Saturday’s Sunset dashed!

The herons did not anticipate this type of assault by land. They squawked noisily as their large wings flapped, hitting the water’s surface, as they hastily attempted to take flight.

The next thing she knew, Saturday’s Sunset was airborne. She launched herself, without caution, like a dock-diving retriever. A mouthful of feathers was her only reward when, SPLASH, the young girl had overshot her target and cannonballed right into the deep end of the pond.