the earth has music for those who listen
Mateo is making prints of falling leaves. At this time of year the Celestine is full of them, and he's got his notebook and his charcoal, and is busy taking rubbings of each of the different shapes he's found so he can look at them in more detail later. The work has him on his hands and knees in the grass, with nothing but the sweet breeze and the sound of birdsong to accompany the soft scratch of the charcoal.
Then some girl comes and collides into his back, flattening him and sending her undoubtedly head over heels. "Oof!" comes the boy's eloquent response, Mateo scrambling to sit back up. The charcoal is broken and there's a jagged black line on the page he's been working on, but no harm done otherwise.
"What'd I do?" He scowls at the girl who has (apparently) just shoved him over. His sleeves are smudged black from the sketching, and theres a streak of dirt on his cheek. "Get your own space, I picked this tree fair and square."
Then some girl comes and collides into his back, flattening him and sending her undoubtedly head over heels. "Oof!" comes the boy's eloquent response, Mateo scrambling to sit back up. The charcoal is broken and there's a jagged black line on the page he's been working on, but no harm done otherwise.
"What'd I do?" He scowls at the girl who has (apparently) just shoved him over. His sleeves are smudged black from the sketching, and theres a streak of dirt on his cheek. "Get your own space, I picked this tree fair and square."
