they march on. up and down. banging drums along the rails. the pitter-patter of little feet somewhere along the dirty path became dinosaur stomps. a shrill scream. a loud thud. a broken piece of plastic sticks up from the carpet. there’s a ring, still wet on the dining room table. the clock ticks toward the moment when it all goes silent. and then, even the heater rambling on startles in this silence. the house breathes a sigh of relief. there’s little damage done. but the little ones? they shall return. and in some cases they multiply. then, then we hunker down, cross our fingers and … wait. we wait to see who still stands when the dust settles.