《Wanderings》


 Atman

    Oh, that¡¯s bright! ¡°whine!¡± Eyes clamp shut in pain. What is that smell? Wow am I ever hungry! ¡°Wimper, wimper, wimper¡­¡± Snuffles, rooting around; wiggles with weak arms, feeling awkward. There is undulating warmth around her body, feeling other moving things pushing against; they are also warm. She feels moist protrusion against her and immediately FOOD! latches on. Wait, why is this food? Whatever¡­ it tastes so good! ¡°Grunt, grunt, grunt¡­¡± Belly full of food, sleep consumes quickly.


    This time I will stay awake! Wobbly, working up onto two feet, three feet¡­ Four feet? I have four feet? Looking down at newly discovered feet, furry and clawed. What is going on? ¡°Whiiiiine.¡± Why cant I speak? On wobbly legs, working their way up to the light coming from what appears to be the opening in a dirt tunnel. Peering out of the ¨C Den! This is a den. New eyes adjusting to the light as a forest come into focus. Wind gently blowing through her soft coat, smells of the world being delivered to her sensitive snout. I have a snout; I have fur and claws! This is weird. Another furry body clumsily pushes past her, he is a bit larger than she and more stable. I am a Fox! A girl fox? Bounding past; into the frost her brother frolics with new found legs. Wind drifts to a silence. Why do I smell¡­fear? She backs up only inches into the den. Silent wings carry him off with a crunch. ¡°YELP! Yelp! yelp!...¡± To her mother¡¯s embrace in the darkness, she is safe. Nuzzling for more food ¨C there is more available now with one less mouth ¨C self soothing, sleep.


    Following their mother out of the den with the cover of dusk feels safer, long shadows throwing wild streaks of darkness available to obscure themselves from sight. Four pups now, the extra food has given them all strength needed to begin exploration of the early spring. Their mother begins snuffling about in the frosty forest duff as always. This evening they are lead in a different direction. She leads her pups out of the great trees, the row of them trot down to the tall grasses that grow golden along the sides of wash. Following the edge of the wash, leaving a trail of muddy prints amongst the fragrant grasses. A fence line glides into view, glimpses pulsing from between the flowing grasses, the kits twitch their tails ever faster as they approach; new scents dancing in the breeze as more fence line comes into view. Mother¡¯s snout actively reading each post and beam as if a most interesting story of scent was inscribed along its silvery wood. After a few moments to read the story herself, mother fox backs away from a spot that caused the start of tail excitement allowing her kits their first read. ¡°Sniff.¡± ¨C Sheep. ¨C ¡°Sniff.¡± ¨C Horses. ¨C ¡°Sniff.¡± ¨C Is that ¨C ¡°Snifffff¡± ¨C humans? Their mother sits by the edge of the fence where the grass is still tall a gentle breeze only barely moving her fur, face into the wind, just smelling. The story of the fence read to completion by her children; she writes her own line of the story with her urine. Waiting for the kits to scribe their marks before leading them off to hunt.


    She follows as her mother leads the pups to a woody pile of decaying leaves mixed with broken twigs that has been pushed by rain runoff into a pile pinned against some rocks. A small trickle of water still works its way from under. Her mouth, like each of her sibling¡¯s mouth¡¯s, is dripping with saliva. Why? Smells kinda like piss and rot. Her mother gracefully lunges backwards as if demonstrating a ballet movement; pausing with her haunches fully recoiled, muscles cocked taught like a bow ready to fire. Mother launches, ballistically arching through the air; landing face first, jaws pushing into the duff to find a soft and crunchy mean. A fuzzy blur strikes out and away, the kits clumsily leap at it with excitement. A mole! The pups chase it around violently each missed strike sending one tumbling into a tree, another into a rock. Her strike skids wide smashing into her sibling who rolls off into the underbrush. Watching with patience of a statue watching over a busy courtyard, like a practiced assassin, mother strikes, crunches a few times and swallows. Mother¡¯s nose to the dirt, she finds another trail. She gathers with the other pups to meet mother¡¯s nose at the spot of interest, then follow up behind her. I know this game¡­I taught my children like this. She finds more of the indicated scent and begins following it slowly with knowledge of a born hunter; realized. Smell becoming stronger¡­stronger¡­ Here! She strikes as her mother did, a beautiful bow shot arced towards its target. Rewarded with a satisfying crunch and a warm meal.


    -------------------------------------------------------


    With the summer blooms fully open; the pups no longer pups have survival skills mirror honed have left their mother. Calculated steps through the fallen leaves, ears back, body low. A scent has lead her too an unsuspecting grouse brooding over eggs in the cover of willows.


    Lunge.


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    Snap.


    Rewarded with fresh meat and three eggs. Plucked feathers drifting gently around the scene, saliva flowing freely, she prepares for her well-earned banquet. The softest snap ¨C she spins right, hackles up, bloody teeth bared; poised to defend her kill. I didn¡¯t sense anything!! ¡°Grrrrr¡­¡± Golden eyes lead snarling teeth into the moonlight. Wolf!? Eyes locked together, guttural growl low in her throat; she shrinks backward, dragging the limp grouse by its neck deeper into the willows, hoping the tangle will discourage the larger aggressor. The wolf suddenly dives at her, it¡¯s jaws latching around the grouse and pulling her out of cover. Damn-it, this is my meal!! A short power struggle before the carcass pops apart sending her reeling back into the willows. Quickly shaking off disorientation, she darts off in the direction of her den, sad grouse head bouncing against her face with each stride, warm blood from the torn neck coating her face as she frantically runs. The wolf won¡¯t leave the food to chase me¡­ I hope. Slinking into the cover of her rooty den beneath a great alder tree she picks at her meager spoils.


    Belly complaining about the emptiness again. Woken night after night by scratching and guttural sniffing at the small opening in the den, she shivers curling deep in the dark. Why won¡¯t this fucking wolf leave me alone?


    Beginning to feel weak, food the only thing on her mind, she strikes out while the sun is higher than dusk creatures venture into. Moving quickly, she trots up a stream bracketed by a canyon of high grass. Scent of sheep prickling the edges of her senses. Barn shingles coming into view, then the fence post with the scent of her family faintly lingering. She works her way along the fence line looking for an opening. A few poles down she finds a bit of the wire mesh that appeared to have been damaged, yanked askew. Good for me drunk farmers never drive well. Her sunken belly and protruding ribcage rippling as she worked her way between the dirt and the metal.


    Inside the fence.


    Nowhere to hide.


    Her hunger pushed her on. Slinking low, momentarily parting the high grass growing along the fence. Darting between shrunken shadows of forgotten farm equipment and decrepit out buildings, sun still high. Across the gravel way, she spies a skewed plank of the barn contrasting safe darkness in the bright afternoon. Coiling under a broken down building she checks for signs of danger; of the wolf. Sniffing with the wind gusts, watching for out of sync movements, listening for¡­anything.


    Go.


    Inside the strange barn: scents of manure, old grease, and rusting metal. Cluttered with familiar equipment. Scanning again for danger, finding nothing but emptiness. The sheep must be in the pasture still, should be safe. Easing up a bit, she prowls her discovered territory. Searching first along the outer sheathing, then through each stall and pen, and then finally ¨C a familiar scent. Saliva rushes to her languished mouth with the familiar scent. Beef¡­Jerky! And¡­ whiskey? Eyes darting about the space and nose twitching rapidly she stalks her freeze dried, salty prey. In the toolbox, it must be in the toolbox! She jumps from bucket, to stack of barley bails, skittering across a stack of wooden beams; silently dropping onto the lid of the toolbox. Feverishly sniffing to percept the location of the sustenance. She drops down to the lower section of the toolbox, presses up on the top lid working her snout in, head, shoulders, hindquarters; lid contouring silently closed following the tip of her tail. Light is not needed to chew open the plastic packaging. She gorges herself freely from the safety of her metal den. Salt, protein, fat. Within moments she is rejuvenated.


    Early winter is mating season for fox; first frost kissing the tips of grasses and leaves the signal to many animals. She had been no exception to the thrall of mother nature. Belly swollen with pups conceived before the first snow; hunger pushes her out of the safety contained in her den. The wolf still haunts her sleep, though not as often since the weather turned. In the fresh powder her oversized abdomen leaves drag marks crossing evidence of her last sleepless night. Her developing girth reducing stealth. Not eating as much as her kits leeched from her body reducing speed. She braves the blowing snow, shattering the crust with her brood. Following the faint scents back to the farm.


    Snow silences her steps as she approaches the farm. Finding the gap between the boards mended; she enters the barn through a partially snow-covered hole; possibly dug before the last snow by another animal. Inside of the barn is filled with slow rhythmic breathing of sleeping livestock, she knows it is here. She circles the back toolbox, no detection of food, only the scent of rust and grease. Where is the stash? Her swollen belly a bit wider than the space between toolbox and wall, she laboriously, works her way free of the corner. A rifle barrel yawns into her eyes; she pisses there in the corner of the barn.


    That was me¡­


    A flash.


    Nothing.


    Diffuse light beams peak through the pine duff and dirt. Bleary eyed, he pushes through the undulating pile of moist skin and claws. His mother¡¯s warm, smooth belly guiding him towards food. With exuberance he suckles, sleeps, repeats. After a few days his eyes flutter to functioning; a glimpse of his family for the first time. I am¡­ a mole?

 Want For It

    A little girl, grinning wide, striding strongly with her shiny patent leather shoes clicking with each heel strike.   Her chubby, pink hand wrapped around her father''s finger like holding the mooring line of a great ship.  She makes four quick steps to his one sweeping, giant stride.  Today is the day!  They walk past shops filled with sparkling treasures, her eyes magnetized to each display, scanning the glass, searching, searching for one place.  The two of them stop in front of the widest window display in town: top half of the display empty for parent humans to gauge the busy-ness, bottom half filled with a diorama of delight intentionally arranged to delight child humans and induce moist, begging stares.  Her eyes darting around the scene, it¡¯s not here.  Her small posture drooping even smaller.  Looking up at her father searching for an  explanation, he looks down at her almost blankly ¨C she perceives the slightest twitch of the corner of his mouth.  She is led by her father left off the sidewalk and into the shop, looking up at him waving lazily to the shopkeeper behind the register at the far side of the store.  Maybe she sees the eyes of the two adults communicating what was not to be said in the presence of tiny ears.  Father and daughter work their way to the far side of the display across the many aisles of treasure toward the long counter.  Peering down each aisle they pass, she glimpses a boy that maybe wasn¡¯t a boy but ¨C maybe a small grey pile of torn clothes tucked inside the shadows cast by shelves of toys ¨C the pile of not rags but boy startles.


    Their eyes meet.


    The boy thrusts his hands into his pocket then out again, swimming wildly for the exit.  His body smashes into the door, just barely getting the latch in time with momentum, bursting into the air with a leap and onto the sidewalk.  His left ankle collapses, exploding with pain, forcing him to tumble across the concrete walk.  Onto cobblestone street he rolls, dirty laundry tossed out for disposal, legs tucked until his good side makes purchase.  Then with uneven strides, more like hobbled leaps, he pushes into the shrouded darkness of the alley across the street from the store.  Yells of the shop owner fade from his ears and is replaced by his own ragged breathing and grunts timed with footfalls below his swollen ankle as he races through the squalid alleyway.  Three more corners to turn, or maybe more until he is safe.  He only knows he must run.  His pace slower now that he is in his territory and injured.  His fingers check his good pocket to ensure it is not a bad pocket like the rest; it is not lost.  Approaching a hidden rope used to gain access up the fire escape redirects the attention of his hands.  Agile legs and strong fingers the only method of survival, they take him up the veiny rope to the skeletal structure embracing the alley side of his building.   Breeching the upper edge, the wind tugs at his hair, replacing the scent of decay with that of coal smoke.  Pausing, clothing gently buffets, standing tall, though with a bit of favoritism to his hurt side, he fills his lungs triumphantly.  Coughing slightly and smiling, he has reached his haven.  Pushing through the small opening in his burrow of discarded furniture and tarpaulins, he dives into dim comfort.  In this reposeful space he may now reveal the newly appropriated treasure to his world.  Paging through his threadbare layers to the one good pocket and resting his fingers upon his tiny stolen treasure ¨C closing his fist around it then retracting from the depths of his pocket ¨C his hand blooms to reveal its smooth red exterior.  With each squeeze his grip rebounding and he grins in excitement.  ¡°CAW!¡± suddenly breaks the enchantment.  His head and eyes snap up to the flowing ebony sheen of a raven, shrouded by light in the opening of his hovel;


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    peering into him.


    A few unhurried hops and a stuttered-step leap away from the pile of furniture, wings lazily kited outward as its body is taken by the sky.  The raven easily gains airspace from the earth quickly on the many warm updrafts created by the sun-baked city as it drops away.  Circling casually on the draft created by the large, roasted, tar roofed buildings; the raven watches.  Their head swiveling in all directions, inspecting the world below for an unprotected rubbish bin, a tossed food scrap, a shiny bauble.  Only their head and eyes move quickly ¨C quick bodies are for predator or prey animals, the raven is neither ¨C and they continue their gliding flight waiting for opportunity to languidly give up thier next meal.  The raven¡¯s feathers ripple as a cool breeze off the water quenches the sky, just slightly.  Timing the draft perfect, they ride the pressure changes towards a waiting rubbish bin spotted with lid slightly ajar.  Talons touch down on the exposed rim of the banquet hall, it¡¯s tool steel smooth beak guides the lid to the concrete with a gentle flick followed by a dull ¡°clunk¡±.  They shift their body forward, knees bent, poised as a gasp, ready to burst into the sky at the first sign of discovery.  But the raven goes unquestioned.  Relaxing, their coal black eyes adoringly survey the delicious bounty below their feet.  With the meticulous movements of a surgeon, it picks through the buffet for the best treats; tossing a paper bit gifted to the wind, wad of cloth to the earth.  A few bits of food blessed to its stomach.  The raven extends its head to its full height, rotating obliquely right as if questioning the whole of the world.  It contemplates the hunched person ambling towards it on the sidewalk,


    ¡°shuffle ¨C shuffle ¨C click, shuffle ¨C shuffle ¨C click¡±.


    ¡°Beautiful day for a snack eh?¡± the man asks nonchalantly, halting his forward momentum at a respectable distance from the raven.   He looks at the oil-slick bird, looking at him from the edge of the rubbish bin.  His right hand already reaching for a bit of sandwich he saved in his waistcoat pocket from last night¡¯s dinner; alone in his apartment.  He fights to stabilize his body against the mirror polished mahogany walking cane that quivers in his left hand with the effort of holding himself upright.  Laboring to liberate the bit of food provides a shaky, weak toss delivering the morsel much shorter than hoped toward the base of the bin.  Features melting to frown down at his poor performance for a breath; then lifts his face back up to the raven, smoothly flowing into the practiced expression that lonely people get when hopeful, ¡°Don¡¯t you like my present friend bird?¡±  The old man watches as his potential friend watches back at him; watches as the bird contorts its neck giving up a single thoughtful eye to contemplate the unexpected gift ¨C then back at him again.  The two patient beings watch each other.


    Time fades to oblivion.