Swurmy

It eats, essentially, without pause, mowing through tender growth and leaving a trail of neat crescent bites that gardeners curse each spring. Threatened, it rears its front half and waves it about, a bluff that works surprisingly often on anything that has been stung before. Come the turn of the season it finds a sheltered fork, anchors itself, and begins the long strange business of unmaking and remaking that will send it out again as a Beezel. Until then it simply chews, and grows, and inches on.