this isn't mischief
He walks slow and steady (yet with a dance in his feet, a limp to his long strides, and a bounce in his gangly legs). Although it is the heat of summer, he can feel the nip of fall approaching steadily. It won’t be long until the green leaves will melt into yellow and orange and red (and then snap to the ground, to crackle as he steps across them). It won’t be long until the humid breeze will whip into a blustery one (one that pulls against his shoulders and sends him seeking shelter). It won’t be long until fall will morph into winter and then winter bleed into summer and another year will have passed.
Although it is the heat of summer, he is always looking ahead.
He comes to a halt (an entirely ungraceful one, but a halt nonetheless) beside a lazy stream. Flickers of fish dance among the shallows, their bodies shifting quickly before one might hit the other. He wonders, briefly, how they might know their company is too close for comfort (intuition or instinct or movement or senses or thoughts). With a smirking lift of his lips, the trickster takes a hoof and splashes it roughly into the water. The fish vanish, leaving behind only a wake of ringlets from his movement.
The cool of the water is refreshing on his leg (especially while the humidity of summer presses against his flanks and burns at his skin). The trickster drops his muzzle to drink down some of the stream’s portion. When he raises his head, he finds himself royally bored. No problem. Someone will find him eventually. Or he might have to find someone.
lokii
this is mayhem
