Stasimon
The smell of death is gone from this place. Washed away by many rains. I was too young to know its strange cloy. Only a fawn. But my flesh carries the memory of all our generations. The haunters. The ones whom no one lives to tell. Who take our souls and leave our bodies. Wrecked and open for lion and wolf, raven and bear, and every other cousin with claws and teeth.
So of course I am cautious. Ears swivel, nostrils quest.
Winter has been hard. It is a long time since there was tender green. Only the bitter needles of spruce and fir. Moss and lichen, day after day, is dreary too. And the unborn buds of the alders and salmonberries have only made me long for the freshness of new leaves. The first taste I ever knew after mother's milk. First green will come back, will it not? The mouth memory of all of my ancestors tells me it will. But I want to taste its return for myself.
So I am here. Because open places are where tender growth is found. And perhaps, under the dead straw of last year, there will be a bit of young green coming up. Just as I was. Just as all of our fleet tribes — elk, and bighorn, and my own family — birth new each year. Come what may of claw and tooth and storm … or even the haunters.
It is night, but up here the sky has opened, and the far fireflies give light, even if the white sister has gone down below the trees. I hear only the safe sounds of night. Smell only the familiar smells of forest, and, before me, the open place. A promise of grass. Perhaps I should not have come alone, but … I step forward.
Without the tall ones to shelter and hide me, chill breezes find and lift my fur. It's thrilling and bold all at once. And a little cold. I test the fodder with my small hooves as I walk. The thatch and springiness of it. What does my nose say …?
The search takes me criss-crossing the open space, meandering and pausing, pawing at smells of promise.
Nose full of grass, ears full of wind, mouth full of longing, I kept my head down too long. Now it is too late. Though I bounded and ran, my back already feels the future. The weight crashing upon me, the claws deep in my shoulders, teeth piercing my neck, jaws crushing my windpipe.
I should not have come alone. Now, I must step forward, into space.
A/N: For those who may wonder about it, yes, the natural world has been the Chorus in this play.