The tent stood tall in the clearing, a grunting roo its only company. A rusty pot lay abandoned in the mud, ants feasting beneath the mould and grime. Frost coated grass stretched to a horizon made sharp by the early morning chill. An observer might have wondered at the low hum underpinning the sounds of the bush-land beyond. They may have noted in passing the dearth of cockatoos, absent shrieks echoing uneasily in the soundtrack of their mind. Certainly, they’d have commented on the slow swaying of trees in perfectly still air. The roo retreated, grunts fading unobserved into the distance.
Categories: Fiction Friday