Buckley chawed on the grass with his iron jaws and stared out into the distance with his old cantankerous eyes. The warm, salty air blew across his ashen fur and across the meadow; it blew through the spiny fingers of the red pine trees that were scattered sparingly across the field. The wind caused the waves to crash onto the rocky shore. Buckley watched as he stood by Gaffer’s neglected fishing shed.
Buckley’s dark, black hooves stood in sharp contrast to his fluffy coat as he chomped on one of the few remaining patches of grass. Next to the buck, in the chartreuse grass, stood a single dandelion that waved in the wind. Buckley stared at it with awe; he was perplexed. He had never seen such a beautiful flower before. Its emerald stem was blessed with the task of supporting the petals. Buckley wished that he, like the stem, had the chance to support something so wonderful. Its golden petals looked magical in the summer sun.
