🐺 Something stirs

Morning loosens from the treeline   
pale… and trembling… threadlike… thin.

I step forward where it wanders;   
something stirs and draws me in.

By the roots a shape is waiting,   
still as frost on shadowed stone.

Not a whisper marks its presence;   
only I can sense its own.

Soft its flank begins to quiver;   
soft its heartbeat stains the air.

I move closer, half in wonder,   
half in something rising there.

“I mean no harm,” I tell the stillness   
strange how swift the words appear;

strange how hollow… how uncertain…   
how they tremble into fear.

For the path recalls this moment   
I have heard that sound before.

And the hush grows tight around me,   
tightening like a closing door.

Then the creature snaps to motion   
sudden spark of frantic flight.

In its wake, my blood awakens,   
burning… cold, and burning bright.

My feet forget their measured choosing;
path and pulse break out of time.

Something claws against my pacing;
then the question snaps alive.

A whisper stirs the branches:   
Each one flees the same old way.

All their terror, all their trembling   
echoes from a farther day.

All their fear becomes a pattern   
I have heard that sound before.

Now the truth crowds at the threshold,
knuckles white upon the door.

Still I linger, breath uncertain,   
watching where the fleet shape ran.

All are hunted when they wander
prey to path… or prey to plan.

Something older keeps my cadence;
something waits where choices end.

And the morning, dim and listening,   
threads my shadow through its dread.