Korro Waits Out the Drips — Every day, Korro padded to the dry patch under the stone arch, folded his paws, and counted the cave drips. Plink. Read the full story →
Every day, Korro padded to the dry patch under the stone arch, folded his paws, and counted the cave drips. Plink. Plonk. Plink. He wanted one perfect nap before the noon flies began their rude buzzing, but the drip always landed exactly where his nose wished to be. He tried scooting left. Plink on his ear. He tried scooting right. Plonk on his tail tuft. “That cave has terrible aim,” he grumbled, smelling wet stone and dusty grass.
Until one day, the dripping stopped. Because of that, Korro opened one eye instead of snoring. Because of THAT, he noticed a tiny round pebble plugging a crack above him, wobbling like a loose tooth. He did not swat it. He waited. The sun warmed his whiskers; ants tickled past his paws; the pebble shivered, shivered, then popped free with a cheeky pip!
From the crack tumbled not water, but a rain of pale cave seeds, hidden where nobody had thought to look. By evening, the floor smelled green and peppery, and little sprouts poked up around his paws. Korro finally took his perfect nap, and if you check the stone arch, you may spot the place that once went plink, plonk, plink.
