wet mist clinging to the sticky fern-leaves.
claws, burrowing into moist soil.
the sounds of the prey, unaware of my presence.

a caw from a distant, flying midevil bird.
hair, stickling to my back, wet, not from early-day's mist, but from a combination of mist and sweat.

last two hunts where unsuccessful.
if this one fails, it's all over.

the children will starve
there will be no future.

Tyranno's sick..
and Henry broke his leg.
my sister and my brother are both stricken with the horrible decease
there are noone left to hunt but me.

heard animal, hunt'sd best in flock
this 'solitude hunting' isn't really my thing, ya'know?


that's why I chose <i>this</i> prey, 
the easy prey

this is <i>too</i> easy
probably an ambush.

can't risk <i>that</i>

not me, 
I am the last one, if I die or get injured, there will be noone
noone at ALL to hunt


hunger
demeaning, disgruntling, foreboding hunger

buzz
buzz of a giant dragonfly zooming by. wet, drops from the threes

dragonfly's don't buzz
they flap
automachine gun's heat-seeking device's buzz.

...


DODGE!

RUN!

TEETH!

BLOOD!

...

death...

my children will finally eat themselves full tonight.

-fin