//and the earth applauds with green grass,
chokeberries, the poetry of spruce trees
rooting in permafrost, deceived
the firmness of ice below topsoil//
He's been waiting. Waiting all his short life. Waiting for that perfect female, that
perfect terrain, the perfect hunt. Time is but a word to him, yet another concept he has yet to understand. The world is his
terrain, eternity his time.
He has but to get there and everything is his. Yes, foolish he is. But how can you find fault in the young ways of a
three year old? Just out of maturity he was and his gleaming pelt showed how many fights he'd fought: none. He was large,
with a square head and feathered ears that focused on the next catch and not his enemies around him. Ebon' and ivory patches
swirled together to create an
impressionist painting upon his hide.
//when summer melts the ice below,
the trees reel like drunks at a party,
their story all askew,
holding on to intent, reaching for light//
Life? Perfect, in his opinion. Except for the perfect
hunt, terrain, female... in that order, mind you! But there was all the time in the world to get that!
He crept from the
fog covered ground, snout
emerging first. 'Is titanic body moved swiftly for its size. There it was. He pounced. The mouse squirmed in his hold
as he lowered his gigantic mouth to engulf it. Ah, much better.
//holding on to water till the long dark
comes and they can believe
again in the truth of ice//