Spotted Eagle Mountain This old new sensation

There’s that delicious confusion, a dwindling resolve followed quickly by acceptance. The older man hauls the flaxen boy up into a twisted thicket, beneath the throng of thorns reaching for tufts of undercoat, and eyes, if they were not careful. Once into the maze he drops the boy’s leg, no explanation offered, then weaves his way out, sipping through the parched entanglement.

He returns to the shade of the tree. Sits. Watches the boy.

“Come, Rabbit.”

Or flee. Return to your warren.