Elizabeth M Castillo

            The sun has set, and at this hour,

            shadows hang between the daylight and the trees.

            There, the sudden scent of blood,

                                                    scent of man,

            carries to me on the breeze, the wind

            howling through, falls silent at my feet:

                                                    'good hunting, milady,'

            it whispers, then retreats. There is

            a darkness in this forest, an end

            that rivals death itself,

            in the mist about my ankles. Even lizards

            know they would do well to hide

            inside their hovels, and underground.

            Dirt crunches beneath.

                                                    Treacherous soil!

            Leaves plunge downwards,

            to be eaten by the earth.

            The naked trees testify: this forest is deadly,

            and will swallow you whole. I hear

            footsteps racing, running, in thundering lockstep.

            Flash of black. Flash of teeth.

                                                    There are dangerous games afoot!

            Surely it’s time to turn back. Surely it’s time to go home.

            I am well beyond my borders now.

            She can’t catch me, she can’t catch me,

            here, where I lurk

            and linger on the periphery

            just out of sight, just beyond her mind’s eye.

            She knows I am here, her veins

            course with rage, and vengeance.

            But she does not know where.

                                                    She is death. She is danger.

            But the line has been crossed,

            the threat prowls within

            her marked territory.

            She may think I have lost,

            but this no longer bears any resemblance to a fair

            fight. No, now two legs, not enough.

            I drop down onto four,

            draw strength from the thousand invisible

            heartbeats, the lifeblood,

            the microbiome of the forest floor.

            There is fear, and some fury,

            encrusted under each hungry claw. The hunt

            smells of my father, champion long before I

            had ever heard of this sport, and I wonder:

                                                 would he be proud?

            There is sweat at my temples, and my wrists are bound

            to stop them from trembling.

            I step, crabways, low and feral, without shadow

            or sound. Your ears twitch and you shudder,

           your neck craning to see what you

            and I must learn the hard way:

                                                 the deadliest thing in here is me.