who we are and all that we're trying to be
A call to the wilderness, rapacious and edged, lined the breadth and breath of his movement. Were it evening his predacious efforts might have been completely erased and eclipsed by shadow, silent, drumming motions in the barest glimpse of piercing, blue eyes; but the morning called and he sank into its siren song then too – vehemence and violence, a streak of sedition, blending him into grass, into dried stalks. He could maneuver underneath or beside with little effort, hunting manifestations akin to the near-wolf regard of his form, the hound conspiring upon edges, upon boundaries, upon fringes, as scents inter-mingled, and he was forced to regard something other his enticements and temptations.
One was distinctly fowl, perhaps pheasant, traipsing its way through the brush, likely gathering whatever discarded roots, seedlings, or plant-life it could muster through the yards of snow. The other was familiar, but only through other moments, other days, where techniques and tactics were mustered in human conflagrations.
On amusements, he followed the latter first, intertwining through the fields, ignoring the aching press of memories, of ghosts haunting the fragments, and only coming upon the leopard when she was suitably distracted, probably tailing after the same prey. Aisha, he rumbled, sitting some distance away, quiet, hushed, not intending to unfold any threat – mere amusement arcing through.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
