Arnold

Arnold was a sand crab. He lived happily on white sand beach in Micronesia. This beach had no name but it was located near Babelthaup on a tiny rock island with a cave in the middle and lush vegetation on top.
Arnold had a brain smaller than a very small pea, but he still looked up from his sand hole burrow at those trees and wondered what it would be like to climb up them. He scuttled into the water for breakfast, lunch, dinner and numerous between meal snacks. As he headed back to his sand hole burrow, he looked up longingly.
Several times birds would swoop down on him, trying to make him a meal--but Arnold wasn’t bird food. He was an adventurer, or at least a wanna-be adventurer, who could scuttle like lightening down his hole when he had to.
He had to pretty often.
In fact he sometimes stood off forty feet or more just to tease these birds. If you listened carefully you could hear a crack as the air imploded into the vacuum Arnold left when he bolted off toward his hole.
One day Arnold put on his hiking boots, put some sludge in his back pack for lunch and headed off for the nearest tree. He got all the way to the top of it just before dark. The huge clouds that carry rain to the Palau archipelago were forming up and heading his way, the way they do every night, but this only augmented the sunset.
“I think I should like to be a sand crab beholding a sunset from the top of a beatlenut tree...” Arnold penned down that couplet but never finished the poem. He waited till dark. The rain began to fall as he made his way back to his sand hole burrow, a satisfied crab. Wanna-be adventurer no longer.