Chasing the Dust Mote

Stalked away from the glass prism—hrr-grmph. In the golden slant of afternoon light, a swarm of tiny golden specks floated mid-air. One speck drifted low toward the floor. I crouched low, dug my rear claws into the parquet grain, and snapped my long snout upward into the empty air. Snap! Empty teeth. The speck swirled away on my breath, spiraling over a stray wooden domino lying flat. I lunged forward, clamped my lower jaw right over the painted dot on the domino, and held it fast against the floorboards. Ground secured, even if the floating sparks vanished into the sun.