The blind tortie let out a huff, wandering through the tall grass. The birds sung, the warmth of the sun welcomed by most creatures. The tom, however, hates the noise. The sunshine felt like a hot iron, burning into his back as he nosed his way through nature's obstacles, green stems taller than him. The loner's face was tattered with scars, the white fur dirtied by mud, easily mistaken as brown tortieshell markings.
Shade was what he sought. The merciful dark of shade, protecting the aged feline from the glaring, feverous torridity. He seemed to be surrounded by tall weeds, a meadow of flowers that smelled sickly sweet, and prickling thorns and burrs, never-ending. He longed for the safeguard against the intolerable heat. He was old. Weak against nature's threats, trying to tear him down. And without notice, the tom laid to rest on the ground, hopes vanished. Maybe someone or something would pass to help. Until then, he'd wait wishfully for nightfall.
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