To Touch a Hunter

She woke up because she was cold.
Chilled and rattled into consciousness.
There was no cover to pull up around her.
Not that it would have made any difference if there was.
Her limbs were powerless anyway.
Arms outstretched.
Wrists bound to a metal pole,
an arctic crucifix.
She looked down at her body.
Her flesh was naked and exposed,
covered only in goose bumps and dirt.
As her gaze covered the length of her left arm
to her stiffly frozen fingers,
she could see a sparrow pegged by it’s wing at the tip of them.
Eyes closed.
Neck dangling.
It appeared to be dead.
Lifting her head, she made sense of the wind.
There was nothing around her but a muddy frozen swamp.
Her lips felt dry and she ran her tongue over them to check.
The cracks tasted of salt and blood.
Weak lips,
she scoffed.
Bloody dreamers.
She pressed them against her shoulder blade.
Pale blue skin cooled their heat and sting.

She remembered the fight.
It had been a fox,
larger than life,
disguised,
hiding under a lambs dress.
It had attacked as she knelt,
exposing the sparrow on her collar bone,
as she stooped,
as she trusted,
as she blinded,
as it tore,
as it ripped,
as it bit,
as it knew.
Foxes always do.

Time in the wasteland went by
until she felt movement in the air
and the fluttering of wings on her fingers.
It was the sparrow,
awakening,
trying to escape.
She whispered to it,
reassured it,
calmed it’s quickening beat
so it wouldn’t hurt itself any further.
It quickly recognized her voice and stopped struggling.
She turned her wrists,
Gathered its small body in her palm,
stretched its caught wing
and cupped its quiver.
Its tiny soul started to warm her skin.
The blood tingled in her fingertips.
And they,
in turn,
warmed the body of the bird
and it warmed her back again,
until her joints could bend,
they creaked.
And the stiffness gave way to pumping veins.
Her right hand,
coming to life now too,
it summoned its strength,
it tore away.
Broke the wire in two
and unbound the rest of her too.
The bird,
unpegged,
it collapsed,
with her,
and fell to her lap.

She noticed the chicken bones stuck in her throat,
sharpening themselves more and more against her breath,
though she couldn’t remember swallowing them
or the feathers that she coughed up.
That’s what you get for running with foxes.
The remains of their feast.
A bitter taste.
Her closed eye lids gave way to hot little tears.
And the sparrow,
it glanced up at the rain,
clawed itself back up to her collarbone and
drank from her cheek.
It grew stronger and soon took flight,
brushing away her frowns with strong wing flaps.
Throwing up the dusty air escaping with her thoughts.
It flew up high,
it literally soared.
And from up there,
so high,
it’s easy to see ahead, you know.
She kept close to its flutter.
On the heels of its pulse,
guiding their way out of the desolation.

She’d come across many more foxes in the future.
Some of them,
they’d run,
some would try and bite,
but there were some too,
they renounced their teeth
and advanced with care.
They pushed their head up under her fingers
and let her feel their fur.
Let her trace their shapes.

But she knew to check every lambs mouth
and to approach slowly,
holding her hand out in peace.
So they could smell it.
Sniff at the scents that lingered.
Of the snows,
of the mountains,
of the islands
and the sand
under the sun.
Of the marshes
and the fjords
and the bees
and their honey
and of all the other skins and flesh
that made her up.

And the sparrow,
that nested by her throat,
it curled up in her hair,
sung in her ear
and revelled in its safety once more.