prey amy the spots mingle 020816 ... ovenbird The sky is already threatening nightfall and there’s still so far to go. Whatever soil once defined this path has been bleached by sun and dried to a fine chalky powder in which I see the footprints of elephants and giraffes. They were here yesterday, or they were here a thousand years ago, it’s impossible to tell. There is no wind to shift the sands of time. The past and the present are simultaneous. The air is crackling with anxious electricity. I am being pursued. I do not know what follows me on velvet paws, but I can smell fear rising off the distant bodies of prey animals, of which, I suspect, I am one. A boy now walks beside me, maybe ten years old, brown shaggy hair, and eyes that see everything there is to see. I’ve encountered him before, in some other dream where he showed me where I could find you…he is a guide, so I pay attention. He points to a clearing just off the main path where I see the remains of a human settlement: charred fire pits, ceremonial circles inscribed on the earth, a sense of abandonment. The boy speaks: “The ones who last inhabited this place believed they could ward off the hungry ones. They built fires that burned hot and high, fires they couldn’t control. They burned everything there was to burn until they were feeding their own flesh to the flames. Now there are only ruins.” He pauses and looks at me, his eyes two swimming galaxies that strip me back to stardust. “Surely, you know what stalks you?” I shake my head, but hesitantly, shapes are fusing in my mind’s eye, something is clarifying. The boy speaks again: “There is no deadlier predator than a human who has discarded their own heart.” Then he’s gone. And I’m alone on the crumbling path, my skin coated in dust fine as baby powder. My blood pounds in my arteries and terror runs up my spine. I know what is coming for me though his name eludes me. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue, but there’s no time to get my teeth into it. I turn to face the setting sun. And I run. 260208 what's it to you? who go blather from