But in shadows? As with every happening hotspot in the known world, predators are just waiting for the opportunity to prey.
It might be a small life-and-death drama, but at the Farm, we are talking actual life and death.
Along comes the big bad. Slithering. Licking the air with a forked tongue for the scent of mousey love. Perhaps the big bad has developed a taste for these tender morsels in their nuptial bower. Or wants to.
In a moment comes a squeaking in the humid dark. A thump perhaps, and a scrabble...A fierce little battle that no diminutive St. George can hope to win.
A final squeak and silence fills Base Camp.
The big bad curls around a full tummy and snoozes for a day or a week, and wakes to the delightfully stretchy feeling of impending shed. The nuptial bower now a spa room. Exfoliation and microderm abrasion. Buffed. Polished.
And then vamoosed.
Leaving the mess for the maid.
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