Sea and sky colored dismal gray in light that drained away to speckled haze.
“Don’t like it here,” said Emma watching Mayflower’s wavering form.
“Tough.” Her mother pulled her away. “Will you help me cook tomorrow?”
The daughter sighed, watching birds that cried their song in colorless shade.
“Indians,” she said.
“They’ll not come near.”
But they marched bright-robed and dancing like snakes in the pass.
“Are you scared?” asked Emma.
“They’re just visiting dear. Will you help me clean tomorrow? “
Mayflower sailed, the Indians left, and Emma chose a gray-green grass-snake pet.
“Will you help me build tomorrow?”