April 10th, 2011
Sunrise. (My fingers are still shaking. I feel hot from all the blood pumping through me adrenaline-fast. Nature comes close. A little fox sneaks up and growls at me. I freeze. We stare. It’s love at first sight. Instinct gets me scared; first thing: unlatch my camera from the tripod.)
You can sense my hesitation. I like you, long-nose and pointy-ears, I like your brown fur and little white teeth. There are myths about you dear, and the mischief that you drive in the village. The cats are scared, the people are scared and the bone remains still lyine in the mellow grass. Today you want to come and play with me.
It’s a hunger, for danger. The quiet approach and the growl. The stare. And I salute. This is your land, this is your terrain. I know little but that of which you have granted me a glance. I know what I see from behind my window, in the pictures, through the legends. I live only a fraction of the wild that you call home. And for that I grant you the upper hand, consider me an ally. I shan’t trespass anymore.