Exhausted, she drew her knees toward her hollowed middle. Yawning that sounded more like sighs and little tummy growls, now familiar with the hunger of the soul, so that all other hunger seemed hollow, as nothing, she could easily resist.
Cold blue toes like little periwinkles buried in the desert sand, visions of warmer months, when carefree swims bleached locks and lithe brown limbs sparkled in summer’s rare gift of golden light.
What day dawns fresh as white linen? Only that which follows the dark night of velvety strangers who lap the fire, hungry with desire. Dream or not, it happens.
Dark shapes everywhere, they lurk in abundance. Waiting. Hungry. Churning. Lips dripping with anticipation. Hoping for a fall, a fail, a rent, a tear in the heavy veil. Thick coats wreak a stench rancid. Rolling in death and all that is dark. Deeds go before them as warning. Wolves wait. In the dark before the sun shares it’s morning revelation, they are fittest, while her strength wanes.
One stark halting cry of black cockatoo, the coats turn away in procession falling in line with their elders. Still hungry, but night is over.
She knows their presence but no harm befalls her, they lie in wait each night, as shadows deepen around their stony resolve. They wait in vain. They want in vain. Never satisfied, always hungering. Always plotting. They are the creatures of the night.
In the daylight she bids them well on their nightly adventures in the desert, she hopes they find food enough to tend their young, their sick. Her hunger being of a spiritual sort, could not be satisfied by limbs of small girls.
She found warmth cleaving legs to arms by the fire’s final glow. Embers burning fitfully in desert’s choking cold…. Soon the sun will burn her flesh again, vast sky of big blue nothing will fill her lungs with freedom from the acrid smoke of haze and fire and the dogs will return to their vigil of lapping the fire. Round and round and round. This being the imprint of the pattern of life and death. The blueprint of Night is death… The Day is life…. And so it goes.
The wolves are never satisfied. Night after night they come to visit. Never tiring, unceasing. They are so familiar, like friends. But not friends. Foe. They come in the darkness to devour, but she sleeps untroubled, by the fire. Sure, that her hunger will be satisfied.
Since a child, I have had these unfortunate visits, but the day and I always prevail. For while there is day, one does not succumb to the night. For where there is light, hope and faith will prevail.
alela Diane -white as diamonds