pale horses moving through trees, dappled with darkness, the ghosts of a blizzard, their hoofbeats an echo of glaciers scraping at the roots of the earth. unseen traces drag winter behind them like a great roaring, billowing wagon: ice-laden, frost-swollen, lead-grey as november clouds.

a pack

we break into the forest, some dogs and i. we are a pack, one organism with loll-eared, slaver-jawed parts. our paws smash crunching leaves, our feet crush brittle twigs. we charge into the fray, our hunting grins feral our eyes focused miles away, ready to bay, to howl, to laugh. we are a pack.