Fox's Glade a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr

she enters the personal bubble of another almost without noticing, but as his scent crosses with that of the deer she is pulled from her thoughts almost annoyingly so.

his fiery gaze draws in her attention before the gruff, savage noise that forms in the back of his throat and cuts through the silence between them.  just like she, he has disfiguring scars although hers instead adorn her sides, hidden beneath a pelt of alabaster unless one looked close enough.

and, of course, the see-sawed gashes on her front legs from her latest fit.

she bobs her head to take the entire beast of goliath proportions in.  his pelage is a drab slate of variegated grays — much like the sky was, that one day, no! stop thinking about it!.  his candle-lit gaze is fixed upon her in a posessive, predatory manner and an anxiety creeps up within her that she too is going to become his prey.

and perhaps she will, but not in the way she presently thinks.

her head remains low but her consuming black gaze moves towards the direction of the herd and as she thinks about the ungulates — that this beast would absolutely demolish, — she begins to salivate.

the cold leads her to start quaking.  although she does not want to appear any weaker than she is, she is nervous and frigid and there is not much meat to keep these bones warm.  she tucks her tail in between her legs to touch her stomach and finally whines in response to him.