Private for Cotl and Ouiji! A general harbor in Yarmouth.
Across his chest was a leather strap that attached to some sort of worn messenger bag that flapped and flopped against his hip as he walked. It was bright, attractive, coated in colors and designs — some purposeful, some accidental. The strap on his chest interrupted his sweatshirt, wrinkling it uncomfortably against his chest and stomach, and constantly did the black-and-white peppered yearling pause to correct it, smooth the wrinkles perfectly and situate the bag back onto his ass, where it belonged and didn't intrude on his stride. After a few minutes the bag, clanging and clinking from the materials within, would slide back to his front and bother him again, and so the system repeated, over and over and over again. He knew it was a vicious cycle, and yet he didn't mind pausing to fix it every time; he wouldn't have had it any other way.
Micah strolled about among the harbor, listening to the irritated calls of the gulls as he sauntered among them, interrupting their head-in-their-winged naps and casting them into the sky. It was amusing, really, and every chance he got he burst into them, yelping, waving his arms, and surely the birds hated him for it. No matter. He could not resist, and he would not have it any other way.
He selected his canvas: A stray, small vessel bobbing in the waves, surely anchored to the depths of the ocean rather than tethered at a post. It was within reach, unlike many others that floated about aimlessly without a proper place for him to stand, and so the choice was made. Up onto a post at the end of the dock he climbed, humming to himself, peppered tail swinging merrily in sync with the bob of the ship. Micah wiped at the surface with his palm, clearing off some of the grime and dirt and salt, and into his back he dug only to whip out what appeared to be a can of spraypaint, the bottle so rusted its color was primarily a mystery. For a moment he sat down on the post, reading his canvas, perhaps seeing the image within the red steel, and then he propped himself up on his feet, hunched over, tied his red scarf around his muzzle and into a knot over his messy ponytail, and began his work. The sound was a pleasant, relieving noise, and he hummed to himself as he worked, arm swinging every which way, forming the black outline of what appeared to be a coyote's head.
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