Wild Berry Meadow no man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate

the limb gave, and she understood clearly her cue and moved in one swift movement away from him, circling tightly to face him again. there came no respite now, despite the blood welling and streaming in thin rivulets down her forelimb. jaws wide, muzzle wrinkled and ears flat against her crown, she charges him again. she snaps towards his face, though whether or not she make contact is inconsequential; whatever the outcome, she will make haste to put distance between them again only to strike again, and again. in this way she hopes to drive him away or wear him down, ignoring her own failing stamina in the frantic anger that belongs to a mother threatened.