Silvertip Mountain small lives small lives small lives

He drew close, as if a fly coming to the sweet, sick scent of a pitcher plant. She would receive him with a brow raise, a final chance to run away.

The surface of a pitcher plant was slick, the inside slicker. A fly who fell in, they would not come out.

A final warning for the Icarus seeking too close to the sun. For the fly coming close to the pitcher. She bunched her muscles in preparation to stand.