Overture Downs 2am fridge raid

hunger?

hunger was dear friend to her, like a well-bedded lover, much-kissed child, a fat tick behind the ear sucking up blood.

she did not mind hunger, the way an exile did not mind the scars upon its throat - it was not absence of something - it was, in itself, a state of being, neutral and unprejudiced, alike a newborn. mewling quietly and persistently, demanding to suck on a swelled tit.

she knew, however, the importance of that first milk - which to her was first again and again - and when the squealing grew unendurable, knew to drop into a starveling's crawl, and follow the steps of a hunter.

this one she'd seen as he crossed the little rivers parting from the streams feeding the hollow ( so important to her! ), and through mud which sucked at her bones stalked his stalk, not intending to be unnoticeable - merely, not a nuisance.

there'd be pity, or there'll be bones. either way, the babe'll be smothered.