. . . T H E   S H O R T C U T . . .
The grackle stood her ground. Now what. He looked back, the shortcut was getting long. Yes, maybe a few bridges had been burned, but was this really the point of no return? Lightning crackled in the distance. He counted. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, . . . one thousand twelve, then low rumbles. He did the math. What was behind looked worse than what was ahead. The grackle finished the crumbs and flew off.  Onward ho, he trudged.