Meadowlark Prairie that the people would see me too as a poet

Aquillius’s single eye found the darting shape, and immediately he would loosen a protesting bark, speeding up to close the distance between himself and the stranger who sought to take the kill he’d been pursuing.

The eagle-son came careening, eyes narrowed but posture not unfriendly, only confused.

The calf was panting, tired. He could afford a quick conversation.

I have been pursuing this calf from the Mesa. He would speak, galloping with the stranger wolf.

Help me catch it, and I’ll give you half.

He wasn’t the greatest hunter in the world, but bringing home something would be a victory. Even if his idea of home wasn’t anything like the Mesa.