Legs pumping under the midnight moon.
Running through the feathery grasses.
A mist over the moors.
A will o’ the wisp.
Wraiths.
Pale shadows skim across still water.
It was the dark of a New Moon.
The darkness of the pit was upon him.
In the distance the land slowly rose and fell
like the undulations of a snake
the earth breathes
old oaks creaked under a dark sky
a vacuum breath of wind
feather touch of the first hint of winter
hoar frost flickering in the windows panes.
The panting of wolves on the hunt for fresh meat.
New Blood for a New Moon.
Black blood at midnight.
Red blood at noon.
Far sensing pink petaled Spring.
Sprung up from the newly freed waters
of a licking river.
Rising with a new storm.
Warm, Spring rain.
Trickling water tickling distant shores.
A fat and sassy river admires he mossy rocks
before giggling down the dream
rush down the stream.
