Cricket Creek Bog They say you can endure anything for ten seconds at a time

She crept quietly through the jade-green grass, body low to the ground. Every step was taken with painful care, so slowly that if one sat and stared at the space she occupied, they might think her frozen in time - if not for the constant flick-swivel-twitch of her ears turning this way and that as they reacted to every insignificant sound.

And sounds were all around her. Evening was falling, and crickets were chiming in every direction. (She remembers warm summer nights in the red plains, folded up in happy piles with her pack as she listens to the cricket song around her. The world is damp and heavy, the night sky tangy and bright - ) She doesn't know what's making those sounds, but hunger drives her to hunt it down.

Even as she stalked toward the nearest sound, it went quiet, and another creature chimed several yards in the opposite direction. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a cricket hop, but when she turns there is no prey. Still, she knows no frustration. Whenever she blinks, she begins anew. When her glass begins to run over, it is emptied. When her sand runs out, the hourglass is turned over -

Doe is born again. Doe is ancient. Doe is ageless. Doe is nose to ground, begin again, damp and heavy -

Somewhere in the distance, thunder and lightning crackle in the sky. For a moment, Doe feared. And then she did not.

Disjointed and confused because she is.