| Rain Man |
10-06-2006 08:07 AM |
My animal instincts arise. I paint my face with berries and herbs. I howl at the moon!
But tonight, there is no howling. Tonight I hunt in the darkness. I creep silently through the falling leaves and listen for the tiny sounds, the slight crinkling and shuffling, that identifies my quarry.
There! Off to my right! My ears prick up, my head turns. I listen intently, and pick it up again, upwind against the cooling autumn breeze.
I know that sound, know it well. When you have survived many winters, you know the sounds, the smells, the sights, of everything in your environment. The sound awakens my hunter's instincts.
I creep forward, creep forward, careful not to alert my target. There it is, now, in a clearing lit by the moon. Staying downwind, I stealthily make my way forward, and my knowledge of the ways of my people pays off. I am undetected until I am so close that I can nearly touch it.
I leap out, every synapse firing with adrenaline!
"I'll have the Nachos Bell Grande," I ask, and the girl gives it to me. I open it up, crinkling the paper in the distinctive manner of this species, and howl at the moon.
The hunt was good.
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