Through the branches,
icy blows the wind of winter.
Numb the hands, stone feet,
breath a cloud of vapour.
Comes the moon in bright regalia,
darkness cracks in splinters.
Hark, my prey walks stiffly
but inside the blood is warm.
Over frost it crackles
with a timid step and sidelong.
A glance above means salvation
from a steely skewer.
Numb the hands, stone feet,
breath a cloud of vapour.
Comes the moon in bright regalia,
darkness cracks in splinters.
Forage, scarce in winter,
skin is tight across his belly.
A shiver passes stiffly
but inside the blood is warm.
Nary a cry or rustle
down from my perch I fly,
Skewer out and moonlit
with a glint of silent alarm.
The pierce meets resistance
from sinew bone hide.
Numb the hands, stone feet,
breath a cloud of vapour.
Now the rush, now the cry of triumph,
now the sweet reward;
The skin peels back stiffly
but inside the blood is warm.


Penned by my hand on the 19th of Lupar, in the year 400 AF.