She chases grasshoppers, but instead of running after them as her physiology would recommend, she follows their jumps with her own short bounds. Someone looking into the meadow from the road above might think her a tiny deer erupting out of the grasses like a child’s Jack-in-the-Box. Or perhaps they’d think her a rabbit. A conejita racing for her life, a fox hot on her heels. But no. She is just Em chasing hoppers toward the creek where waiting trout have the last laugh in the ripe golden sun of the first day of fall.