Tigglesaurus

It’s a summer’s evening as the girl walks through the meadow of heather, coarse underbrush gently grazing her ankles, releasing that aromatic scent of the deep purple flowers as she goes. The low sun turns the field into a blanket of indigo up to the treeline, highlighting the sandy track that cuts into the forest. The girl pauses on the bridge over a shallow soak, eyes scanning the peat-black water for frogs and dragonflies. A ripple catches her eye, and a dragonfly alights from its perch and swoops overhead, landing on a stiff grass stem on the other side of the bridge. She watches it for a moment before it takes flight again and disappears from sight. The trail leads on though the heather, widening as the groundcover gives way to bracken and beech. It’s a path well worn by shoes and hooves, and the girl scans the edges for other prints. She sees the imprint of curious dogs passing through old puddles, and here and there the thrilling two-toed raindrop hoofprints of deer. Birdsong