Alone, a fawn lay curled in the crook of a tree's dark roots. For a couple of days now she watered the tree with her bitter tears. Sun spotting camouflaged her in this place, maybe that was why nobody came near the little child, she did not know. She did not know anything other than the obvious facts: she was alone and hungry.

The fawn blinked in to the sunlight as she watched others play, graze, and go about their daily lives. She had tried to eat the abundant grass around her that sustained her older brethren, but would always seem to wind up getting sick, like one thirsting at sea thought could not drink the water. Her stomach rumbled like a miniature thunderstorm had lodged inside it. The sickly, starving being lowered her head again and closed her eyes. A whimper came from her lips, and she squeezed her eyes tighter. A hiccuping cry barely drifted on the air as she let free her frustrations under the trees. Today, no tears came. She had finally grown too dehydrated to produce them, another fearful sign.

The fawn just lay there, shivering, alone.

(Thank you, otis.)