The Sparrow & the Wolf
You needn't bare your teeth in such a fashion, her fluted voice did sing, her muted hues well blended with the bark upon the tree. She cocked her head and clicked her tiny beak and hopped down to a lower branch in the willow tree.
I nursed my wounds--scars that threatened to never fade--but did not think to heed advice from the sparrow in the tree. I only watched as light rippled upward in the sky, as liquid luck; I only waited for time to kindly pass me by. And slowly the fangs shrank, the tail disappeared, the hind legs melted away--she only watched me, eyes unblinking, from her perch up in the tree.
Fascinating, was her response, lacking awe or intrigue, the boredom stretching in her tones.
What? I asked, with irritated haste, shivering in the brightness of the dawn, the taste of blood still salivating upon my grisly tongue. She stretched her wings, then settled down, her penetrating eyes now staring at the rising sun.
You live a myth, she plainly noted, watching as time transformed the sky. You live the idea that there is a beast within.
I frowned, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to do. Suddenly it all seemed so surreal.
She did not bother to wait; her eyes trailed the sun until it started above the horizon. A new melody whistled from her beak, and she dove off the branch of the willow tree. Her tiny body soon was just a random speck in a far off sight.
You live the idea that there is a beast within.
My hands shake from phantom memories of ripping things to shreds, and still the nightly howls echo in my ears.
And still, the scars are healing (still bleeding) after all these ragged years.