the boys who kiss and bite
they are the brilliant ones
who speak and write;
Her voice broke. She couldn’t scream anymore. And the bear came ever closer. She backed up a step for each step he took forward, until the rough bark of a tree blocked her path. In response to this new horror, she simply shivered and stared into his face as he closed the distance between them.
Then Dante was there: loping into the clearing, jumping between her and the bear, latching onto its neck and taking the blow that would have finished her. He coaxed her into the shelter of a bush where she trembled in the late afternoon shade. He was risking his life to save her skin. Dante was fresh, not having fought for his life yet this evening, and effortlessly teased the young bear into a frustrated exit.
Wide-eyed and breathless, she watched the bear give up and turn away, loudly trundling into the forest beyond them. After a quiet moment, and Dante’s reassurance, she crawled out into the fading sunlight. Her cinnamon coat had lost some of its luster, being covered in dirt, and she favored her left hip where the bear’s claws had connected, but otherwise she was unscathed.
Tired. She was tired.
She took some time to collect herself, shaking some of the dirt out of her fur and trying to stretch the stiffness out of her leg, before turning to look gratefully at Dante. “Are you okay?” she asked in her small, exhausted voice. But there was something new in it. A softness that she had, until now, kept in reserve. Concern. She moved toward him as gracefully as a limping wolf can, circling him to check for obvious injuries. “Are you hurt?”
they sing in clever tongues
oh, how my knees go weak
to be the one;
H U S H
five ** bound by Dante ** midwestern crater ** |