The Misadventures Of Mirt

On an island deep in Orca sound sheltered from icy winds and prying eyes, lived a clan of shape-shifters. Miniscule in size and calm of gaze they had lived here a thousand, thousand years. They were the keepers of the welfare of all that lived in or chanced by the sound. This particular story is of Mirt. Not a particularly busy Tweet, for that is what they were called and busy was what they were. Always and constantly doing this and that for they and them. We find Mirt in his favorite crook of a moss tree that overhangs the murmuring sweet waters of Lillin creek. One leg hanging off the branch and his head nestled in a leaf filled depression of just the perfect fit for his tousled sandy haired noggin.

Thoughts of lunch washed comfortingly over he and his slightly protruding mid-section. The berries were exceptional this year and head cookie just had a way with a berrie. The slight blue tinge around his mouth gave testament to his appreciation of cookies work. A nap was certainly called for to due justice to cookies talent. Along with the soft wet gurgling of Lillin creek soon came an occasional low harrumping of snores.


As the sun moseyed it's way into late afternoon a sharp cry lurched into the air and foundered there only to be repeated again. Mirt woke with a startle and promptly got a washing for his blue tinged mouth as he slipped off the mossy limb and promptly plunged into Lillin creek. The only witness to his mishap was a squirrel who was now on his back with his little feet kicking empty air in time to his mirth.