The sawgrass stretched out for a long, long distance. From on top of his boulder, he could see unending waving gray. Green in sun, gray after dark. He liked that change, that the world got more subdued, more somber in the night. Even his vibrant coat was dampened to a mixed palette of gray and black.
The clouds swirled, dauntingly thick, overhead. He resented their presence on this momentous night, the night of the full moon. He made a point to come to this rock for as many full moons as he could - the pure white-blue of the moon on the grass, swaying sweet in the wind like a festival dance... He chuckled. He was finally picking up his father's turn of phrase, but it chose to surface at the oddest of times. His father was a storyteller, a wanderer like he, and they traveled together all over the swamp -
The clouds were finally parting. The buck on the stone stood, shivering again, as the clouds gave way to the full, wide face of the moon. It shone coldly down on the swaying grass, and on an entirely new phenomenon.
Rising slowly out of the sawgrass were tiny specks of light. They drifted on the wind, lazy as the grass below, but light and free. The buck stood still upon the rock, speechless. How often had he come here, to have never seen such a spectacle as these, these -
These Motes in the Moonligt?
