Anita grabbed her picnic basket and ran
to the forest's edge. Mottled light splashed
about her feet as she disappeared beneath
its canopy. The air was sweet. Her pulse
quickened as she hurried on, sidestepping
a familiar obstacle and leaping over
a fallen tree. But, as she landed, she froze.
Trepidation sharpened her senses to a
razor's edge, and the basket slipped from
her hand. Fast in the throes of intuition,
she called for her niece, "Lucretia!!"
A gust of wind pushed through the canopy.
A branch of deadwood crashed to the ground.
Anita started forward, stumbling over the basket.
"Lucretia!"
Crows answered, and her fear boiled over.
"Lucretia!" she screamed, stumbling down the
darkening path. She rounded a boulder,
"Gracious, what lung power," Lucretia said.
"Where were you? You scared me half to death."
"Discovering a bitter, old swamp with fat tadpoles
lazing about in the murk of drowning pools."
"A swamp, you say?" questioned Anita.
"Yes-yes! A torment of green algae and
incessant croaking. There are fallen cedars,
patches of sunlight and orchids springing from
decay. The perfect milieu for a picnic."
"You're a horrid little thing," Anita said,
pulling Lucretia close and kissing the
top of her head.