Rusty, Burrowing Sticks of Old

As he made his way through the spring grasses, he began to catch glimpses of odd bits and objects protruding from the dirt below. He came to cross paths with a metal stick of sorts, browned and crumpled with rust. He paused to lower his nose, sniffing curiously at the object. It smelled more reminiscent of stone than wood, yet it carried a peculiar bitterness which he couldn’t explain. He tilted his head and crouched lower to the object, attempting a different angle. While most of the object seemed buried in the dirt, it seemed to have a hole through the exposed side which seemed to run all the way through. It was a long-forgotten barrel of a long-forgotten rifle, the other parts of the firearm likely having broken and decayed and been scattered about over the years. Arató, of course, did not know as much. The boy’s autumn hued tail swayed through the grass behind him as he reached forward and prodded the thing with his paw. He barked playfully as it shifted, bits of its rusted shell crumbling from the touch. It was at least clear that whatever the object was, it was tremendously old. He muttered to himself with a sort of playful growl in his chest, “what stone is this that has burrowed in the grass?”.