King Elk Forest sepulchrum

from behind the tree; a long, jagged limb.

then, on a long neck, a small head.

and a bulging red eye.

the madwoman.

looking down at the roots from a columbine angle.

the flint-stone man had been pondered for a time. her wide-eyed watch had lasted as the sun sunk, and his stillness lasted just as long, if not longer than she'd been there, in the trees opposite him, sneaking nearer on pinprick limbs.

dead? asleep? alive?

with quickness, her nose dipped low to brush his nape, which were black and safe to touch, then - retreated.

and waited.

dead.

the madwoman licked her whiskers.

she pondered anew. the flint-stone man was dark, which was good, but lightness crept through him, like an infection. she considered removal, which she was skilled in, but then discarded the thought, as his blood, if tainted, could taint her too - and she'd so grown weary from her own surgery.

the madwoman paced around him, studying the make of his muscle, the look upon his face, the marks on his coat.

her interest ebbed as the sun sunk. in the dark, she'd found, father-mother svart did good, and made all wolves jet and hard to see. good time to rest one's eyes from the assault of impure lightness.

so the madwoman split.

( yet, she'd committed his face and body to memory, and if in the coming seasons any came looking for the scattered bones, she'd known the man by account only )