zoom in too close and you have a soup of unconnected phonemes. too far out, you have a hundred minutes wherein something must’ve happened–but what? and earlier, this: the thought of the smooth snow churned up with savage flailing, and the voice that isn’t so much a vibration on the air as it is a ripping abuse of it, demanding that bright, unmoving face look upon him and acknowledge that he is her creature.

an exercise in futility. if she will, she will. if not, then there is nothing else to do but wait for his breath to run out and for the insistance that she shall permit him to shed his own blood to die down. then he will see.

i try and wait for her. i try. he’s ever more direct, but directness has its limits. and i’m sorry i could not speak what he is screaming through those bare branches of his winter. it were not right. only if she casts him from the hunt could i tell it is so.

pray it be otherwise.

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