Harvest

"Gotta, gotta find it... gotta." The under breath muttering went on ceaselessly, half the time making sense, and half the time being little more than a jumble of repeated words. The young opossum stopped in the middle of her waddle across a fallen tree truck to stick her nose up in the air, twitching her whiskers and pointed snout intently. "Smell nothing, nothing." With a grunt, the peculiar marsupial shimmied down from the log and plodded along the edge of the fast-flowing creek, slowing now and then whenever she heard or smelled anything that caught her attention.