The Lynx
Light like shrapnel dancing in every direction,
Bemusement and fear alike are born from this celebratory waltz, as often are with you.
A pang like hunger, growls low from the bush with leering, darted eyes,
Averted and illuminated only by the light which jabs scant through the air.
Still, skiddish at the light and sound, it lurks waiting for a chance.
How peculiar, now, that you would run from it, avoid it's foray fervently,
as chilly air sweeps the burning embers swiftly still.
Hunt; it will if it must, but how odd the chase seems now in this mocking distant light.
Light like shrapnel dancing on a lynx.
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