I am part of the herd as long as I squeak.
Oh how it must be, to be born into the cold but surrounded by warmth. Being a tiny creature but already prepared for the wild, harsh felt and all.
Crossing the woods, looking for edible plants. Maybe find some truffles along the way, who knows? Not having a single clue why but sticking your way in the dirt, ideally into puddles and mushy soil. The thing we are looking for? We don’t know, our majestic mother will probably tell us.
I am part of the herd as long as I squeak.
Crossing paths, with foxes and deer, humans and machines. Latter is to be avoided at a 90 degree angle, the way humans should be circumvented. I sneak a view from the corner of my eye. Humans find us cute, I wonder why.
I am part of the herd as long as I squeak.
We make loud noises, our mother tells us not to. But how do we stay together as a group if we don’t oink? I run all day, where to, I rarely know. I trust in group dynamics, at least we all look the same and make the same sound, seems plausible to me.
Silence, as I am given to understand, is a killer. At least as long as I am tiny. Some never conquer this stage and squeak their whole life. I wonder which group they think they belong to then. Personally, I am motivated to stop squeaking and start oinking.
I am part of the herd as long as I squeak, wouldn’t it be better to oink?