Hunting
Pulsing arteries and silver tipped hair. I watch the beast at work from afar. Sharp, skilled claws rip the days old carcass down to bone white. I crave the succulent taste of blood but not from a deer or rabbit. From the black beast that runs the snow capped hills and hides in plain sight using only innocence as cover. Days have passed and the prowl continues. My stomach growls. I settle for a white rabbit. Stupid, bloody mess. My stomach grows more ravenous. After four days the lines in the hills have merged into a blinding tv static and my fur is dry and brittle. The sun hangs too low for comfort but I see a dash of pepper skitter across the plate and here I go.