The Hunt

The myriad smells (from the stale of dead leaves to the must of loam and bark) greet my nose like a stranger that I believe I like, but not quite yet. The woods rush at me, trees like a herd of buffalo. Firs and pines whiz past me as my limbs slish and slash...deeper...into the heart of the forest. The farms and the plains fade from sight as well as memory. The sly, sneaky stars peek at me though lead-laden limbs.
The night. The night covers me like a blanket of fur, stealing over me with chills and whispers. And still my wingless body flies through the forest. My breath rasps and aches in heaving sighs. Love, hate, life, and death catch in my throat like something too big to swallow or eaten too fast. My ebony eyes glisten with both the rushing wind and the knowledge of the mission (destination). The tears cascade in tiny rivulets around my proud nose. Sides of my nose itch, flaring like lightning in August, but my paws scratch the hard earth instead.
As fast as the trees blur by, sound flushes past my pointed ears: here, then gone. The twittering, chittering mouse scurries homeward. A wild pig shrieks his general displeasure. An owl moans a slow warning. The soft splash of an eagle digging into a passive trout sifts in from the lake. A duck squeals her long, laborious, melodious complaint. The frogs bloat their chins and croak their sins, as the minnows and flies could forgive them.
Suddently the sweet scent smashes me square in the face. My tail jerks upward once in recognition, and my legs pump even faster. The sky falls and my chest rises. The stars assail the night with piercing points of far-away fire. My tongue lolls out the side of my mouth in a desperate plan to cool myself. The moon pounds above me all the long night, and still the sky falls on me in tons of black and pounds of gray. The night oozes darkness from every secret pore. My nostrils flare. Closer...almost there. Another sound crowds my mind: the sweet, softness of frightened rabbit steps. Almost as fast as me. Faster? The night stretches submissively as my legs reach their stride. The feast calls to me as it careens down the ebony, evergreen tunnel. The pangs of hunger crack in my belly like the snapping of a whip. My own heart pounds a drumming, thrumming sound. Too soon my gaping maw catches the little gray and white fluff and takes food for my belly (and my pride) in a wicked, obliterating osmosis.

4.27.1993