Pipsqueak

Mist and fog, brothers, came once again to see off dawn and welcome in the daylight starkness. The tiny porker on his back one chubby foot on mothers teat, the one that is reserved for him. A ray of sun steals through the cracks of weather-worn and aging alder illuminates a dusty cloud of those who would, well justified, take up their space in weightless air above and in between, unfolding life which like a burst of foul and earthy yet so pleasant aromas sees the light of day. There is so much this world can offer, a plentitude so overwhelming but in the straw with milk moustache and warmth of Mama, next to brothers and sisters sleeping happily his choice is easy no thought of thrill adventurous excursions has captured him no barnyard siren entrances with her lusty song. And while he suckles grunts and smacks a pipsqueak of a turd makes its appearance wormlike and soft, with grace it winds its rosy path down onto sister's sleepy head. And briefly with a smiling yawn he settles back and feels it all oh that those brothers Mist and Fog would now return and never leave.