Skulking through the fog of melting snow, he blends into the grey morning in camouflage of nature’s evil intent. They scatter at his progress for when he stops he is unseen and patient when they trustingly return, surprised to find him that much closer to his quarry. Eventually he seizes victory and glory, and sits godlike on his throne, crowned by rising sun that sparkles dew like diamonds on his artificial ermine robe. Seated high above the crowd, he ignores the commoners below as they breakfast in their natural social levels, wary eyes in search of seed cast greedily about the ground like garnets in the speckled snow, manna from a heaven that sits atop a metal pole.
Goddamn squirrel’s emptied out the feeder again.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology