Wet Wool Bare Teeth

The hills ring hollow, the whole world a rusted bell. Cold, empty, sucked of summers marrow. The birds sang once. They've all since left. You forget their song. Others are out there now. High in the hills. No wing to flap but the same black eyes. Silent circles traced not in empty sky but in dull frost. Still, they are out there. Still as the hills themselves, still until I make my move, then they stalk. They make no sound as they glide though thicket. The spaces between steps, breaths between breaths. Then still again. The world is brittle. Hard. Silent, save for the panting lungs of the children at your heels, their gasps steaming like open wounds. Forever behind you. Always within sight.